


Director and Mrs. Rogers Christmas

by donutloverxo, LizzyGal



Series: Toxic [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Bathing/Washing, Bathtub Sex, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Cock Warming, F/M, Festive Smut, Holiday Blues, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Steve Rogers, Nipple Piercings, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Song: All I Want for Christmas Is You (Mariah Carey), Taxidermy, Vaginal Fingering, hydra!steve, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutloverxo/pseuds/donutloverxo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyGal/pseuds/LizzyGal
Summary: Newly appointed Director of Hydra for North America, Steve Rogers, is ready to make a big change this Christmas season.Every year you get the holiday blues.Hydra ruined your lives. Hydra keeps your family apart. Hydra has ruined the holidays for you every year since Project Insight succeeded and this year was shaping up no different.Having unfortunately declared your love for one another, Steve has decided that this Christmas will be different and he’s going to fill you with the holiday spirit, one way or another.When a blizzard hits and traps you two in the house together and a secret is exposed and you find out more about one another, will the two of you and your already rocky relationship be able to survive Christmas?
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Series: Toxic [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857811
Comments: 151
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

_**December 24th** _

You used to love Christmas.

You used to love everything about Christmas.

You loved spending it with Aunt May and Peter. Decorating the apartment and going to the mall to see all those decorations, figure skating with May and baking cookies, binge watching holiday movies with Peter over and over. 

It was your favorite time of the year.

Snow. Christmas carols. Red and green everything. Santa and his elves. Ugly sweaters and the food, oh the food, all the yummy food. Gingerbread cookies and smoked turkey, Aunt May’s spiced cider…plus her infamous mac and cheese that could only be served once a year, due to the amount of cheese involved.

 _Used to_ being the important wordage. 

You used to love Christmas…not so much anymore.

Hydra had ruined Christmas for you.

Now, Peter went to go visit Aunt May and you had to stay back. As if Hydra were worried letting you spend too much time as a family would in some way be a danger to the control they had over your lives. And you pretended that everything was fine, as usual. You’d taken Peter to the train station and sent him north with many gifts.

Every year you sent Peter home to Aunt May.

Every year your assured Peter it was fine, that you had things to do with Steve and friends for the holiday season.

Every year you gave him big hugs, kissed his cheek and left red lip-prints on his skin, waved excitedly from the platform as he left.

Every year, you went home and sobbed for days. 

Every year you moped around the house for most of the month. Crying and grieving for everything you’d lost when Hydra took over. Which was the only time you allowed yourself to grieve what you’d lost. It was when you felt the breaking up of your family most, when you felt Peter and May being away the most, when it was clear just how much Hydra had taken. December was when it hit the hardest. Having the house mostly to yourself made it easy to go from bed to work, to the couch, without Peter’s hovering. Steve never seemed bothered about a lack of Christmas decorations or spirit, far too involved with causing as much chaos for Hydra as possible. And so long as you maintained a good face…he never noticed, men never did. 

As soon as Peter came back, you gathered your wits and things got back to the new normal of your lives. Your time to mourn over for the year.

This holiday season was shaping up the same.

You’d dropped off Peter. Bucky was away with his sister and the Widow Rumlow, doing god only knew what, whatever it was probably being all kinds of illegal, possibly immoral, but definitely questionable.

Upon getting home from the train station, you’d had yourself a good cry. Afterwards, you’d taken a Benadryl with glass of wine and then went to bed. And then, the next thing you knew, it was morning and tomorrow was Christmas Day and you were already counting down till New Year’s Eve.

You just wanted this all to be over.

Needless to say, you were somewhat surprised when Steve yanked the covers off the bed that you were nestled beneath. As you intended to remain there till your hunger for breakfast could no longer be ignored. As you were off work until January and had nothing else going on that day, other than some light tv watching.

There you stayed in bed. 

Still. Unmoving.

Not even lifting your head from your pillows.

Steve stared down at you. Dressed in black. Backpack over his shoulder for his eventful day off for the inclement weather. 

He had a lot to do that day. Six people to kill and three bombs to set before the blizzard came in and he had absolutely no intention of letting you wallow for another year. This would not be a repeat of every Christmas previous during your marriage. 

How he’d allowed this to go on, year after year, was now beyond his ability to comprehend.

You were suffering and he’d been too wrapped up in his revenge to notice, or really understand.

Now things were different.

Now the two of you were different.

Older. Wiser. Admitting that there were feelings. Sure, it heavily complicated things. It made things more difficult. But they were there. They had been acknowledged. And now, the two of you had to find a way to be together for real. Your marriage was no longer just for propaganda. Your being married to Steve was no longer just because Hydra wanted to control your family, or for Steve to father little Super Soldiers for _the cause_.

Now you were in dangerous new territory.

A little box wrapped with midnight blue paper covered with stars fell on the bed. A folded-up piece of lined paper too.

Your eyes focused on said box, then the paper, then lifted up to Steve, yet no other part of you moved. Curled in a ball on your side, snuggled in and warm.

“That list better be complete when I get back tonight.”

Not real concerned, you didn’t move.

On Steve went.

“I left a few things I picked up out in the living room.”

Silence.

How had he allowed this to go on so long?

“When I get home tonight, I want dinner in the oven and you waiting for me by the door wearing what’s in that box. As you so vividly described to me earlier this year. I think it’s time I take you up on your suggestion.”

Which led you to raise your eyebrows. He could have meant anything. You said all kinds of outlandish things to Steve.

Adjusting the heavy pack on his shoulder, he nodded towards the folded-up piece of paper. “Don’t worry about dinner. Order out for all I care. Make sure you complete that list though. When I get back, everything better be done, you better be wearing that and waiting for me under the mistletoe.”

Steve then leaned down, pressed his lips to your temple and stood, leaving the room with a stern expression on his face, directed solely at you.

Naturally, this got your attention.

Still though, out of principle alone, you didn’t move until you heard his truck exit the driveway and even then, you didn’t even reach for the list, or small gift, until you’d yanked the blankets and colorful quilt over your shoulder. A concession by Steve, to you, in the ongoing progress that was your marriage.

Ignoring the list, you reached out for the box.

Steve wanted you to have on what was in that box later? Considering the box was small, no bigger than one a brownie baking mix would come in, you were slightly curious. 

Reaching out, you grabbed it and shook it. Something hard bounced around inside.

Since Steve didn’t make mistakes, you found yourself wondering what the hell was in there and single handedly, you pulled on the ribbon till it fell off. One handedly, you used your nails to get into the wrapping paper, pointy and beige in color. After your attack earlier in the year, you’d stuck to the stiletto nail for obvious reasons.

A pretty white box emerged that you easily popped the lid off, then dumped on the bed.

Crimson tissue paper spilled out on your colorful quilts. 

Something heavier was in the soft paper, along with something lighter. Leading you to dig through those dark red layers, till you touched something little and delicate and jewelry…kinda. 

Earrings.

Diamond stud earrings.

They were beautiful.

Truthfully, you were surprised, you blinked unbelievingly. Never had Steve randomly just up and bought you diamonds. Pondering that, you then remembered, it was not the only thing in the box. Something more plopped out onto the bed from the crimson paper.

Something sheer. White.

Grabbing it, you held it up to see an apron. That not so little shit had given you an apron. A legitimate apron and in surprised disbelief, you sat up. Steve had given you a white apron that was one hundred percent sheer. It wasn’t covering up much of anything. Nor was it kitchen appropriate. 

You were both shocked and then…well…you remembered something he’d said as your brain raced. _As you so vividly described to him earlier that year._

Oh that was right. You did. You had screeched something about meeting him at the door like a good little housewife, a drink in hand…or something to that effect, if you remembered correctly. You’d been upset when you shouted that verbal gem his way.

Now this?

Diamond earrings and a sheer apron and he wanted you to greet him at the door?

Because of course he did.

What the hell else was in the paper? Something else was in there. You dropped the apron and yanked on the tissue paper, not totally shocked when something else tumbled out of the red layers.

Mistletoe.

Snatching it up while swearing beneath your breath, you were outraged at his utter audacity. It was then that you read his hand writing, as you questioned whether he’d finally lost his ever-loving mind.

Finally.

Clearly, he’d finally lost it.

Oh your husband was such a shit. You were going to give him such a piece of your…mistletoe, how interesting and perhaps, inspirational. An idea came to mind, as you tossed the sprig aside, to look at whatever the hell he wanted you to spend your day doing.

Yep, finally he’d lost it.

Finally, he’d gone over the proverbial edge.

Unfolding it, you pursed your lips to the side, eyes narrowed.

And what a list it was…

_**-Decorate the tree** _

Decorate the tree?

You didn’t have a tree.

Scrambling, you flung your legs out from under the blankets and padded your way across the floor, around your marital bed and through the bedroom then beyond, into the house. Wondering what freaking tree Steve wanted you to decorate because…

Because there was a big, real, Christmas tree in the living room.

Freezing dead in your tracks, you gasped at the sight of it, upright and in a stand.

“Shit!”

By it, were several paper bags full of decorations. A couple boxes of ornaments and a stepstool too.

Blinking. 

Stunned.

Your attention returned to Steve’s list.

_**-Decorate the tree** _

_**-Hang the stockings** _

_**-Put the wreath on the front door** _

_**-Have dinner ready, order out and put it in the pot (do not try to cook anything)** _

_**-Assemble and put up the advent calendar (candies are in the bag with it)** _

_**-Have music on when I get home** _

_**-Light the candles (candles are in the bag)** _

_**-Put the new holiday sheets on the bed (they’re in a bag)** _

_**-Surprise me with something festive** _

Festive?

He wanted something festive?

Oh…you’d surprise him with something festive. You had just the thing in mind. He wouldn’t know what hit him. You’d show Steve the very definition of the word festive and while you were at it, you’d be the most festive of all Stepfordy wives waiting for her husband by the door, drink in hand, wearing that fucking sheer apron and those beautiful diamonds…oh shoes. You’d have to find a pair of suitable pumps covered with sparkles. Maybe you had a pair? 

A hair appointment too.

You needed to make a few calls. 

Where the hell was your phone?

Steve wasn’t going to know what happened, when your Forties Housewife Train of Christmas Goodness hit him. 

You’d show him festive.

Those diamond earrings though…they were stunning, you were going to suck his dick like you were welcoming him back from war. He’d done _so_ good on those earrings.

Now where the hell did you leave your phone?

****

For a second…Steve thought he’d arrived home to the wrong house.

He actually did a double take upon pulling into the garage and walking out, crossing the heavy knee-deep snow that was still falling with a fury. Only the dent in the garage door and your car parked a bit crooked told him, that he was indeed at the correct home.

Christmas music from the past could be heard from the driveway.

Smells of a delicious dinner wafted out into the cold winter evening.

He’d seen a pine decorated wreath on the front door, when he’d pulled into the driveway. 

Christmas lights decorated the outside of the house.

There was even a fucking snowman in the front yard. Complete with red knit scarf, coal eyes, a carrot nose, twig arm’s and black top hat.

This was a first.

Steve had never ever seen a house this festive, ever.

Other houses in the neighborhood were decorated, sure, but this, this was just beyond what he’d ever anticipated.

Honestly, he thought you’d get somewhere between a quarter, or third, of his list done, before getting distracted by something else, or going back to bed. Which Steve had plans for, backup plans, alternate plans.

This year would obviously be different.

Snow continued to fall out of a grey cloud filled sky, sticking to him as he hurried up the back steps that led into the kitchen, unsure of what beheld him.

Quite literally, he had no idea what awaited him.

Hurrying up the back steps and in, shoulders huddled and stomping his boots, Steve shut the kitchen door soundly. A winterly snowy wind escaping in past him, as he swore softly at the winter storm that raged.

Heat made his skin tingle.

Heat made his icy nose burn.

A delicious smell of food hit his senses, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since that morning and then, then, he caught sight of you and nearly forgot how to lock the back door.

“Steven! Darling! You’re home!”

This was in no way what he expected, or anywhere near close.

Rooted firmly to the floor, Steve stared, openly gaped really.

Christmas tunes crooned from the living room record player. He could make out festive decorations everywhere, smell scented candles burning and you, there you stood, hair looking like a pinup from back in his day. Your lips red, Ruby Woo red. There you stood smiling brightly, wearing nothing else but that apron, those diamond stud earrings and a pair of sparkling pumps, a steaming mug of hot cocoa in your hand.

Oh, and your golden nipple bars. He could definitely make out the tightening of your nipples from cold wintery air that had snuck in. Making the golden piercings press against the sheer white apron fabric.

“Dinner is ready and I made you some cocoa, to warm your little bones, pumpkin!” 

Steve watched you sashay over, hand him a Santa mug and then usher him past the festively set table, complete with lit candles and dinner. 

You flipped the locks on the door, brushed snow from his jacket, more than pleased at how you’d rendered him speechless.

In the time it took you to get him shoved into the living room, you’d yanked off his jacket and cooed at him affectionately. Combed your fingers through his longer hair, cool from snow and the incoming blizzard. Fluffed it to knock off a few remaining clumps of snow. The weatherman was hella worried about it, but you didn’t have time for the meteorologists problems. You’d had tasks and a mission to complete that day.

Steve noticed your pointy nails were red and green, with little gems on them.

The living room…oh the living room, he had no words.

The tree was stunning, decorated and glittering and glowing from lights and ornaments and garland. Candles were all over and a fire roared in the fireplace. Mistletoe hung in every doorway. 

“How does it look Steven? As good as back in your day?”

Good as the old days?

He was momentarily confused. His old days? In his old days, he’d been too poor to be able to do much more than maybe buy his mom a gift, if he’d been able to save, forget this explosion of pine and colors and cinnamon. And where the hell did you find a train set to put around the bottom of the tree? Motion from it circling around distracted him for just a second. 

You may have had the wrong impression of what Christmas was like back in the thirties.

Or maybe, maybe you’d snapped?

Was he too late?

Had he pushed you over the edge with his holiday list?

Slowly stepping into the living room, Steve had a sincere moment of panic. Clearly he had finally driven his little wife past the point of no return. Bucky had warned him that it could happen if he wasn’t careful.

Over in the corner of the room, was a real-life stuffed reindeer with a wreath around its furry neck, a string of lights around that wreath, twinkling crystals hung from its antlers and a crackling fire beside it.

Oh yeah, he’d done it.

He had made you snap.

There was a stuffed wild animal the size of a motorcycle in his living room.

An apology was on the tip of his tongue. Steve turned, ready for whatever came next and then…then…then he noticed something, as you preened in the living room wearing shoes that looked new. Which was ridiculous. When would you have had the time to go shoe shopping and do this to the house?

Beneath the apron was something colorful where the curls that dusted your mound should have been.

“Doll?”

More preening.

You shifted from one sparkly pump to the other. Hair shining in the natural glow from the roaring fire. God did your lips look amazing painted red. Heaven help him, your breasts speared with gold bars beneath that white sheer fabric had his dick taking notice.

His back tactical pants were getting a bit uncomfortable.

“Lift up your apron.”

Steve had seen that smile on your face before. He’d seen it on tigers on the TV in the wild, right before they chased down and ate a small animal. Thus telling him, not only were you perfectly fine, but you had done something very naughty. In reaching down and flipping up the skirt of the apron with those emerald and crimson nails, yeah, you’d be fine. 

Forget naughty, you were bad with an uppercase B

Not only was all your pubic hair gone. Gone. There appeared to be a jeweled mistletoe covering your mound.

Speechless.

Steve did not possess the words to respond to whatever the hell you’d done to your vagina.

Coyly, you announced, mid swing of your hips, “It was on your list husband dearest. Isn’t it most festive?”

Festive?

This was festive?

Blinking, his mouth opened as Steve searched for words. First though, he set down the hot cocoa. Before he spilled it. At this rate, it’d end up on the reindeer.

“Please tell me you did not shave yourself and glue crystals down there…”

Rolling your eyes, you blew out a breath, then peered down to draw a finger over a leaf on the palm sized depiction of mistletoe. Instantly, you’d known Steve would shit himself over it when you saw it in the spa book of available designs.

“No Steve, I didn’t shave myself and glue these on. I went to the spa and had everything beneath my navel waxed off. Then I had my little kitty vajazzled.” Thank goodness you hadn’t shaved in weeks. You’d been able to get your legs waxed too and once all that pain was gone, you’d been quite pleased with how smooth you felt. Like a wet slippery dolphin or something.

Plus, this expression on his face, was so worth it.

Unable to determine what was more horrifying, the idea that you had paid someone to rip out all of your body hair, or that someone was close enough to your nude body to do that to what you were referring to as your kitty, which was another first. Steve’s mouth opened and then it shut. His hand went up then covered his mouth. He pondered. You shimmied about, in order to show him how glittery the crystals were, that seemed rather firmly affixed to your mons.

Oh the urge to yell at you was strong, so strong.

This was up there easily in the top ten dumbest things you’d ever done and made your top five for most absurd.

On the other hand…you weren’t sulking. You weren’t on the couch giving him one or two word answers. You weren’t throwing boxes of Pop-Tarts at him for dinner.

He could let this go.

Even the knowledge that you’d done this to get a rise out of him was better than that look you got on your face, when you saw trees in picture windows at the neighbors houses, people figure skating down at the park or holiday cookies that went around the office. A look as if you’d break out in tears at any second. Watery eyes. Bottom lip quivering unless you bit it. 

Yeah, he could let this slide.

It’d grow back. Eventually those things would fall off. Especially once he found the can of WD-40.

Starting a fight with you was not how he wanted to spend Christmas Eve. No. Not when he could show his displeasure in a way for more enjoyable for the two of you. Leading Steve to step over to the couch and plop down, then pat his knee. “Come here. Have a seat. Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”

Almost daintily, you lowered the skirt of your apron and soundly heeled your way over. All while _Jingle Bells_ drifted over sounds of the fire crackling, smells of a roast and cinnamon, pine too. Lights twinkled. It was almost absurd and yet, it was all new to Steve. This was his first actual Christmas since he’d woken from the ice. It was the first time his marital home with you had been decorated. It was the first time he’d done anything remotely festive on Christmas Eve, not since the war and it would most certainly be seared into his memory forever. Along with that thing glued to you in rhinestones.

And hell, if you didn’t smell like a goddamn dream.

As delicately as you could manage, you took a seat on his thigh, beaming up a storm in your gleeful amusement.

Later he’d deal with the reindeer issue.

Pointed green and red nails lifted up that gauzy apron, to expose the mistletoe. Three berries the size of marbles and four leaves that covered your entire mound. There had to be fifty gemstones…maybe more, he wasn’t about to count. Not when something far more interesting caught his eye.

“Did you miss me today doll?”

Hungry blue eyes found yours and you couldn’t talk. Cat had gotten your tongue. The best you could do was nod. All you could do was nod because in that next second, Steve ran fingers over the vajazzled part of you. Boy did it feel weird. A barrier to his touch that you were beginning to regret.

A finger touched your lips then raised between the two of you. Wet. 

“Open your legs. Show me.”

As much as possible, with your one thigh pressed against his in opening, allowing your newly waxed hip to feel how rough his black pants were and the hardness of his erection beneath, you widened your thighs.

Totally having forgotten that all you had on was an apron, that did nothing for the good cause of modesty, you let out a gasping noise when Steve leaned forward to lick the side of your breast. 

A high-pitched noise Mariah Carey would have been proud of escaped from you.

“More doll…let me see how wet you are for me.”

Were you ever wet for him. It was almost embarrassing how turned on you were. Never again would you be able to hear _Jingle Bells_ without remembering this exact moment.

Teeth nipped at the soft side of your breast in encouragement, till your legs popped open, so you could expose yourself. Reaching down and most carefully spreading open your intimate lips, slippery with the wet moisture of your arousal.

A hum of approval came from your husband.

“You thinking about me today doll? Is that why this pretty little pussy is so wet for me?”

More nodding.

Pretending would have been futile. And that was before he touched you. That was before Steve’s fingers dropped down beneath the mistletoe and along your wetness, slipping over your lips and then lightly over your slit. Lightly enough that you pushed up against his digits. Only to be rewarded with him pulling away, tugging down that apron to cover you. Well, cover you as much as sheer fabric could.

A pout came from you.

“Doll,” he sighed, raising those eyebrows as he gave you an appraising look. “Did you know that back in my day, as you so aptly put it, if a wife did something so outrageous as what you did, that wife would be spanked?”

That pout turned into a gasp of outrage.

On Steve went, far from done. A clothed arm came around your bare back that he used to pull you against him. Smearing your arousal all over his thigh, without any care, it seemed. “This cannot be allowed to go unpunished. So you have a choice…a spanking or the balls.”

A real noise of shrill outrage exploded from you and his grip around your waist tightened. “You told me to surprise you with something festive!”

Indeed he had, and come next year, he would make this a example.

Steve’s grip on you tightened as you began to struggle. 

His voice calm and absolutely understanding, “I did and that’s why I’m being so lenient.” A glance was spared over your shoulder. “Still though, darling, that is not an excuse at all to bring a stuffed wild animal into this house and decorate it.”

Leading you to pause, consider his words.

Words that were still coming.

“Really doll. Where did you even find a stuffed real-life reindeer? It’s a bit much, even for you.”

Following his lead, you peered back over your shoulder at the stuffed animal in question.

“Sparky?”

Sparky?

Steve could not believe that either. “You named it Sparky?”

Ok, so, maybe decorating it was a bit much?

“No, Rebecca named him Sparky. She’s letting me borrow him for Christmas.”

Because why wouldn’t Bucky’s sister have a taxidermied reindeer?

Regardless of who the damn thing belonged to, Steve couldn’t stand to look at it a moment longer. “What’s it going to be? A spanking? Or the balls?”

Neither option sounded particularly appealing in all honesty. They didn’t seem to mesh with the festive mood and all, which led you to channel that inner housewife yet again. 

What would a good obedient little housewife do? 

“What if I make it up to you instead Steven?” Popping that V in his name extra hard, pushing up against him. Curling your fingers up along his chin. Channeling that neighborhood cat, the one that was always outside yowling for male companionship and rubbing up against the fence like a hussy. “You work so hard and were gone all day. It’s the least I could do…before serving you dinner.”

Pointed nails drug down along his shirt, catching on the cotton, till reaching his matching pants.

Though he was silent, his eyes scalded, his eyes begged, his Adam’s Apple bobbed and you took the initiative to slip from his thigh and kneel down on the floor, between his legs, popping them open further by pressing against his knees with your palms. 

Dragging those nails along the rougher fabric of his pants soundly. Enjoying the stiff way your husband leaned back and perhaps you may have parted your red lips in a way you knew he’d appreciate. Much in the way you could appreciate the pained exhale that came from him, as you pulled the tips of your nails up his muscular hips. 

Steve watched you make yourself comfortable between his thighs. He watched you pop open his fly with those dangerous looking nails and could not begin to control the way his heart pounded, how excited he was, as if it were a first time.

The end of November.

That was the last time Steve could remember having a blowjob.

December was no man’s land. It was the time of year when he was intimately acquainted with his hand. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. Therefore, he sure as hell wasn’t about to hint around for martial relations.

He both heard and felt his zipper come excruciatingly undone. 

His dick was so hard it hurt. How he didn’t come the second you pushed his fly open and pulled him out was a miracle. It took sheer willpower and concentration to hold on. 

Never in his entire life, had he ever focused so hard on the words of Jingle Bells.

Thinking back, you could not remember the last time you’d sucked his dick. Giving you some indication as to why it felt like you were holding Thor’s Hammer in your hand. You could have hunted a reindeer with your husbands erect penis. 

It was hard and heavy in your hand, almost hot to the touch and velvety smooth. Decorated with veins up the sides. Tip red and almost angry, smeared with thick pearly pre-ejaculate that you licked right off and were rewarded with a noise of pure suffering from Steve.

His dick really was a thing of beauty.

In pushing down his foreskin the rest of the way from where it’d slipped down his erection, your wrist was tickled by his trimmed pubic hair, exposed by his open pants.

Since he seemed so uncomfortable, you took pity and sank down on his tip, earning another pained noise. 

Also earning you a hand to the back of your head.

Fingers sank into your big curls. Steve’s pelvis thrust up, his erection pushed into your mouth and he watched his dick vanish past your painted lips. Resulting in a noise hallway between arousal and agony.

He wouldn’t last.

Steve knew he wasn’t going to last. Not now. Not tonight. Not when you were looking at him like that, teasing him with your tongue curling around his dick, your hands squeezing his shaft and palming his sac. No. Dear god no. The grip he had on your hair grew tighter. When his crown touched the back of your wet soft mouth, you hummed. His muscular hips pushed against your mouth all on their own, chasing that blissful rapture that only you granted.

Nimbly, that tongue of yours swept around his cock as you pulled back, sucked on him. Pumped firmly with your hand while tracing veins along his length, swirling his sensitive head and sinking back down with a depraved moan.

He panted.

One long leg kicked out beside you.

“God…doll…I’m not going to last…”

A noise that sounded pleased came from you. Vibrated around him. Sent his head back as a cold sweat broke out over his spine. You were killing him. You were sucking on him just right…squeezing his shaft just perfect…swirling your tongue and going deep enough his tip touched the soft back of your throat.

With a hiss, a tightening of his balls in the palm of your hand, a rigidity overcome his body, you felt your lover climax. 

A salty, briny taste, filled your mouth as you swallowed. Against the walls of your mouth you could feel him twitch. Could feel each pulse of cum and knowing what a visual creature Steve was, you allowed some to escape. Saliva mixed with his release oozed from around your mouth, from the corner of your lips. It rolled down his cock and dripped onto your chest, onto your apron and between the flimsy fabric on your breast.

On sheer chance, you glanced up to find him watching you like a hawk, so intensely, harshly, as if he were thinking of something extra hard to make it come true.

Like a good housewife of your most debauched fantasies, those you’d never tell Steve because they felt like a bit too much, you opened your mouth to show him you’d swallowed every last drop that he’d given you. You let him see how obedient you could be, if you so desired. 

A profanity hissed from your husband in response to your display.

Followed by that hand in your hair loosening, till fingers trailed softly down your cheek, catching the escaped cum from the corner of your mouth and smearing it on your chest. Smearing it with the rest that had escaped. Over your warm smooth skin. Beneath that apron he’d given you to wear and over the curve of your breast. 

Unable to look away to see what he was doing. All you could do was feel him rub your combined bodily fluids into your soft tender breast, over your pert nipple, squeezing it and twisting your piercing because he could. 

The way that his eyes penetrated you, held you down…it was invasive and controlling and when he pulled his hand free, you opened your red mouth.

“Want the rest?”

Words couldn’t have come from you if you’d wanted. In response, you poked your tongue out.

Steve placed his fingers on your tongue, making you moan at the debauched taste of you both. Merely the thought of it smeared on your breast and chest had you wrapping your tongue around him, to clean his fingers, do your duty as the best little housewife.

“Look me in the eye when you do that,” he managed in a harsh rough voice, eyes heavy with arousal when you finally found them again. Unable to look away, in your most sacred duty of cleaning his calloused index and middle finger. Wetly you sucked, licked and drew your tongue over both, without ever looking away. Feeling yourself grow hotter within, as your thighs grew more slippery each time you clenched them together. A spanking, in that very moment…well, suddenly it didn’t seem quite so bad. A little bit of stimulation, a touch of pain from his rough hand? That idea settled quite nicely down deep, in the recesses of your molten core. Rolling around fluidly in a wet hot building need.

Distracting you.

Allowing Steve to surprise you, to pull his hand from between your mouth. Holding the wet appendage up, observing it and finally putting his fingers between his own lips, as if making sure you hadn’t missed anything. 

Slunk down on the couch, long legs akimbo with you between them and semi hard erection flopped on his abdomen, he considered you. 

“Ok doll. I’m ready for Christmas Dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

_**Christmas Eve** _

_Silent night, holy night…all is calm, all is bright…_ crooned through the Rogers’s warm home.

Fire cracked. Smells of dinner made Steve’s stomach rumble.

Lights twinkled in his periphery. 

Therefore, it took Steve a few moments to realize just what it was he was looking at, while you fussed around by the sink, several arms reaches away, popping a cork on a bottle of wine for dinner.

Everything sort of melted away.

What he wouldn’t have given to have been doing something else, anything else.

God he would have given Bucky his left arm to avoid having looked in the kitchen trash can.

All he had wanted to do was toss out a napkin in his pocket. That was it. That was the extent of what he wanted to do. And what did he do? He just managed to ruin the evening.

It was done.

It was over.

No amount of Christmas Carols drifting in from the living room was going to fix what he stared at in the trash can, over by the fridge. No amount of decorations.

“Steve?”

You were talking to him.

Looking at you, his head popped up perhaps a bit quicker than was natural.

“You want a glass of wine?”

Did he want wine?

He wasn’t hungry anymore.

Not even that most delectable smelling Christmas dinner could distract him from this level of dishonesty.

Considering what he wanted to say, how he wanted to put it, everything that he wanted to say that just bubbled up as he tried to understand why you would do this. Why you would lie? Why you would keep this up for years? Years! Was this because of him? Had it been something he’d said or done?

“What? What’s with that face,” you wanted to know, pouring yourself more than an ample about of wine.

“You can cook.”

Puzzled, you looked back to the empty glass on the counter meant for him. Hydra’s octopus etched on the side of the set. A gift he’d been given at some function or event. They were your only wine glasses and usually only pulled out of the cabinet for entertaining. 

“What? What are you talking about?”

Unfortunately for you, your back was to Steve and you weren’t able to take stock of the minefield you were on, had created in your haste to get everything done.

Sounds caught your attention.

Weird sounds.

Sounds that sounded distinctly like the trash can being upturned. Which was odd, why would Steve have dumped out the kitchen trash onto the floor? Making you risk a look over your shoulder and then again, to blink in surprise.

At first, you had no idea what he was talking about, or why he’d emptied the trash on the floor that you hadn’t had a chance to take out.

Steve knocked hunks of pine and wrappers aside with his shoe.

As if accusing you of a crime, he gestured at white bloody butchers paper, wrappers from butter and trimmings from veggies, piled beneath the Christmas trash items.

And then you understood.

“Where did you get dinner from?”

Blank.

You couldn’t think. An answer did not come. Your mind completely failed you.

Still in your apron, all you could do was stare at the trash on the floor.

Slamming of the trash can on the floor made you jump and turn, set the bottle of wine down, as you stood there gaping like a fish out of water.

“I…I…I…”

Shit, what was that takeout that Steve liked from that family restaurant? What the hell was the name of that place?

“Tell me the truth!” Steve yelled at you, far madder than you could have imagined. He pointed to all the food up in serving bowls and platters on the counter, an octopus on each. Reminding you both, who you and Steve belonged to, without a word having to be said.

Could you fix this? Could you in any way salvage this?

When Steve yelled your name, you knew that there would be absolutely no fixing this and briefly wondered, if there was any way you could request a spanking? 

No.

Not with that enraged expression on his face.

Nope, no amount of spankings would fix this and you could not, for the life of you, remember when he’d been this mad at you. It’d been a while.

“Where are the takeout containers? And do not tell me Rebecca made this meal. Rebecca hasn’t been in DC for days!”

Right…Steve was keeping in touch with Bucky. Of course he’d know where Rebecca was, hell, he’d given you the key to her house so you could water her plants and clean out her koi pond.

How could you have forgotten the takeout containers?

You’d been lying to him for years. How could you have slipped up? How could you have forgotten something so simple?

Absolutely forgetting about Christmas Dinner. Forgetting about your skimpy little apron and your pumps and the jeweled mistletoe on your most special of all places, you rested your hands on your hips and deflated. “Yeah Steve. Ok. I can cook.”

Physically, you never touched him and he still reeled back, as if he’d taken a blow.

“You have been lying to me since we got married? You have been lying to me for years! Why! Why would you lie about this? Come on!”

Did you dare?

There was a chance that you could smooth this out, make things better? There was still an opportunity to calm him down and make him see things from your side, from a rational and logical place. 

Stomping your foot, you lifted your eyes and looked upwards. Rational and logical were never really your thing.

How could you say this? How could you explain it? “Oh my god…Jesus Steve…”

He was done though, so done.

“Look at me when you tell me why you’ve been lying to me for years!”

And you did. You looked him right in the eye. You held his blistering gaze as you explained. Words soft, growing into a ramble the further along you remembered. “The first time I ever made you dinner, it burnt. It was an accident. I was nervous and it was the first night we were married and you made a face. You looked like I’d just served you rat poison.”

Little pings came from the window. 

Snow pounded against the glass as it came down, stuck, built up against the pane.

Back when you two had first been married, because neither of you had asked for this, it was not like you two had met and fell in love and made the choice to spend your lives together. It set Steve’s teeth together and he considered his options.

Dare he touch this thing that had been avoided, danced around?

Things had been good otherwise. Things had been going very well that year, outside of the attack you’d suffered, but even that had been an opportunity for the two of you to further grow together. 

Those early days in your marriage were a time that he wanted to forget. How wonderful it would be to simply put them in a box, seal it shut and stuff it into a closet and forget that what you two shared, the precious little spark that had grown into a flame that he nurtured, was something Hydra had given him.

Did he want to rip back into that period of pain, of unhappiness and confusion?

“So you decided to pretend that you were a terrible cook? You made the choice to ruin everything you ever cooked? Burn every single thing you ever cooked?” A big palm slammed onto the kitchen counter to steady him, centering him, a few strands of blonde hair danced across his forehead. “Years you did this! You blew up raw meat in the microwave! You made scrambled eggs with the shells in and caused a kitchen fire while baking cupcakes! All of that, you did all of that to spite me?”

Steve could see it in your face. You weren’t backing down.

Sounds of snow hitting the glass windows in the kitchen were louder to his ears, yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care how heavy the winter weather was now coming down. Not when you coolly told him. “It was the only thing I could control.”

How did you do this to him?

How could you hit him harder than Bucky without ever touching him?

“Jesus Steve!” You went on, your frustration growing. Your body growing a bit more restless. Beneath that sheer fabric you were nude and for the first time since he got home, he didn’t even notice. “I was a child. I was terrified. The country was taken over and I got reeducated and then everything was different, nothing was the same. I found out that it was either me getting married, or Hydra was going to take Peter away to get their hooks in our family. And then I married you and you were so angry and mad all the time, and were still so perfect. You made me so mad. Now it’s been going on so long, I figured I’d just ride it out.”

You figured you’d ride it out?

He’d never heard anything so asinine in his entire adult life, to include you thinking he was perfect, which was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard out of your mouth. And Steve used to watch cable TV with you too.

At first, he stared at you, unable to comprehend the absurdity that had tumbled on out in your explanation, your rambling.

“I mean god!”

Apparently, you weren’t done.

It seemed you were on some type of a war path.

You threw your own hands up in the air. “For fucks sake! Hydra gives us our home! You tell me what to wear! Hydra tells us what to do! You have to get me birth control on the black market! Half the neighborhood spies on us for Hydra! They took Bucky and Peter and neither of us can have a normal life! Who cares if I intentionally sabotaged dinner for years? That’s the least of our problems!”

And he was back on the war path.

Right there with you.

Any extra time dwelling on how Hydra had destroyed your life was discarded.

And it wasn’t like you were wrong. Everything you’d said was true. Unfortunately, Steve took issue with that second to last thing out of your mouth. Who cared if you intentionally ruined meals for years? Steve hadn’t gone hungry. But it wasn’t that which bothered him so deeply.

“You lied to me,” he yelled at you.

Causing you to cross the mopped and shiny kitchen floor, now covered with trash as Christmas Carols crooned on in the other room. Your finger raised most dangerously at him, pointy nail downright threatening.

Steve’s face was getting flushed in his anger. “You lied to me and kept it from me for years!” His neck too, flushing up from the black collar as his storm grew larger, wider, even more outraged. “And stop saying I’m perfect! I’m tired of people looking at me like I’m special and I’m tired of people lying to me!”

That earned him an eyeroll from you.

In turn, he batted your hand aside with ease. “And I tell you how to dress for a reason! If I left it up to you, you’d look like a kindergartener in a rainbow-colored onesie all the damn time!”

“So you’re embarrassed by your wife who is also a liar,” you shrieked. “Anything else? Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?”

He stepped closer to you.

God he hated it so much when you got like this, but he wasn’t done. He wasn’t near done. Being so much taller, he had to lean down to get closer. He sounded vicious, even to him. “I never said that! I’ve never once been embarrassed by you! It’s not my fault you prefer to dress like a child! It is not unreasonable to not want their wife to lie to them every day of their marriage! You’re different! You don’t look at me like the others!”

Your eyes narrowed.

A question formed in your expression.

Snow shifted noisily up on the roof as the weight grew too much, as a sheet of it slid down into the yard, sending up a cloud of flurries that showered the window over the sink. 

_Santa Baby_ began from over in the living room, so seemingly far out of reach now.

“You weren’t my first,” Steve snarled, coloring you all kinds of surprised that he would actually poke at the subject of him, his past, before you and you assumed Hydra.

With something bordering close to scorn, possibly revulsion, but definitely an inner hatred and anger that burnt with the fire of the sun deep within. It was practically tangible. You could have reached out and touched it if you so desired.

“Contrary to what you think, small Steve wasn’t considered adorable back when I grew up. No one wanted someone tiny and weak and sickly. You think the girls were fawning over me before I met Erskine? No! And then, after the serum, yeah, I thought I had found someone special. A girl from the neighborhood who was always nice to me. I always liked her and I thought, possibly, that she might like me too.”

All the anger and hurt rolling off of him told you no, told you exactly what happened, you didn’t need to hear it from his mouth.

“She lied. She didn’t want Steve. She wanted Captain America. She wanted nothing to do with Steve and I was too naive to see it. I gave her parts of me that I shouldn’t. I let her have things that I never should have given up. She’s dead and gone and forever will always be a reminder of how I’m not good enough without the serum f…”

And you slapped him.

Unable to listen to another word from his mouth, about whoever the hell that woman was, what she had done to him, her lasting impact.

No.

You slapped him as hard as you could manage. A crack that echoed through your kitchen. A slap that would forever be heard through the coming years of your marriage. The palm of your hand stung something fierce. Steve was shocked and rendered speechless.

As Eartha sang on about Santa Baby, you had a bigger fish to fry.

Fingers grabbed his face and you yanked him closer to you, tips of your nails poking into the smooth skin of his milky flushed face. “I am your goddamn wife Steve! If I lie to you, it’s because of me and not you!”

“Don’t lie to me at all,” he seethed right back, storming forward, pushing you back into the counter. Where your back hit something hard, not totally stationery. Not something you were too concerned with either. “You lied about being in the resistance! You lied about this! What else are you lying about!”

Because of course he’d bring that up.

In an act of pure rage, you shoved his face that you had between your fingers. All so you could get back in the fight, good and proper.

“Nothing! That’s it! I’m not lying about anything else! What the hell else is there that I have for me, that is mine and mine alone? Huh! Tell me Steve! Tell me! Unless you want me to start something new to lie to you about! Would you like me to start faking orgasms, or develop a shopping habit to lie about?”

Truth be told, Steve never heard that last part. 

He saw all kinds of red at mention of that other possible thing you could lie about, an unthinkable and horrific thing. A thing that was absolutely and totally far worse than you sabotaging everything you ever made in the kitchen. To include feeding him neon blue Pop-Tarts.

His hands were on you.

He was grabbing you and shoving you back against the counter, knocking something off the side of the sink and onto the floor that landed with a loud, jarring, shattering crash. One that he hardly noticed because his mouth was on yours and his fingers were in the curls you got done, because his body was pressing yours up against the counter in a desperate attempt to get closer, show you otherwise.

It was the drying rack.

Black and metal, full of dishes, a few glasses and silverware. Gravity pulled it down where glass and ceramic crashed to the floor in so many little pieces, metal silverware spilled all over.

A loud piercing noise that blended shock and surprise at both your husband, and the additional destructive mess on your floor, spilled from your throat.

Something ripped.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking dare,” your husband snarled against your cheek.

Rough fabric that felt like canvas rubbed against your thighs. A hand possessively grabbed your breast as you realized that he’d ripped off the apron. 

On instinct alone, your legs went up, scrambled desperately to hook around him, wrap tight, scoot up to curl around his hips. Instinct alone for you was pretty hit or miss. Instinct also told you to hiss back in your most petulant tone, pulling at his shirt to get it up, over that broad expanse of chest that you wanted to mark up with your nails. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

It was almost like, every word out of your mouth, was intended to light him on fire.

That woman from so long ago, she never made him this angry or could bring him to life so fast with such minimal effort.

In all your wiggling to get higher up, you slipped, nearly falling off the counter as he prepared to give you the mother of all lectures. Steve had to momentarily restrain himself.

A frustrated pained noise came from him and still, somehow, possessing some inner fortitude, Steve yanked you off the counter and stepped a few feet over to the table that you’d set up so carefully. 

Dishes broke, crunched and split beneath his boots. Glass cracked.

None to gently, he dropped you on that table where dishes were set out, emblazoned with that god forsaken octopus right in the middle. Another thing that Hydra had given him for his service, his valor.

Letting go of you only just for a second, he brushed it all aside with one sweeping motion from one long muscular arm.

Dishes. Glasses fill with water. Cloth napkins plus a salt and pepper shaker all wound up on the floor. 

Shattering. Cracking. Spilling water all over. Breaking open to let salt granules and bits of pepper scatter over the floor. Resulting in an actual shriek of horror from you. “What the shit Steve! Those are all our dishes!”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he hissed right back. 

Shucking his shirt over his head and flinging that aside.

“You’re breaking all our shit! What are we supposed to eat off of? Your good looks and charm?”

You were moving again. Starting to sit up. 

Of which he was having none of. Free from the confines of his shirt, you could make out bruising on his side. There was definitely what looked like road rash of some kind, as if someone had taken sandpaper to his side at one point in time during the day. Considering how gnarly it looked now, you could only imagine what it had looked like originally.

Not that Steve seemed too worried. Nope. His hand shot out to cup your throat, pull you forward most unceremoniously and into an upright seated position, so very near his forehead that your noses hardly barely touched. “I dare you to lie to me again. So help me, if you utter so much as one little white lie…”

Already you were thinking about telling him a lie. You wanted to see what he would do, what he would dare do. Your mind went into wild and dangerous places. Angry. Enraged. Terrified. Turned on. Curious. Hungry. Desperate. You were just feeling all of it, every last bit of it.

You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t lie to him again, not after hearing about what he’d given someone else. You wouldn’t do that to him. You would never hurt him in that way.

Thinking about that, about what he’d said. You couldn’t and not reach for him, regardless of his hand on your throat. If anything, that added a whole new element of wrongness to your arousal. And it was already dangerously close to dysfunctional. 

Far from anything that could have been gentle, your fingers were in his hair and pulling him to you. Your grip far from gentle, you attacked his face with yours because what you did in no way resembled kissing. 

Red lips pressed over his, wet tongue traced over the swell of his bottom lip while your hand made the journey south, to open up his pants. “What was her name.”

He stiffened.

Steve’s entire body stiffened against you. Having nothing to do with the fact that you’d managed to wiggle your little hand beneath his hot flesh, past course pubic hair, down to grasp him, thick and hard . 

“Was she your first?”

Such words were not at all what he’d expected to come from your mouth, not asking for her name or that last part, definitely not that part. Not in the middle of a fight. Not when he’d been ranting and raving. Not when you were gripping his twitching cock hard enough to make him risk swallowing his tongue. For someone so much smaller than him, your grip was strong and powerful.

“Tell me the truth Steve! Or does this honesty thing only go one way?”

In response, Steve did the only thing he could think of, he pushed himself into your hand far from appropriately. Seeing red again. Feeling himself get dizzy from all these feelings you were making him feel against his will. Smelling what was the incredibly distinct scent of your arousal growing. Knowing that if he didn’t let go of your throat soon, he’d leave a mark. A volatile noise came from him and he ripped his hand away. Needing to be touching you, his hand too went south, down down down to the V in your hips and pushing two fingers into you.

Lewd wet noises came from his fingers sinking in deep, getting sucked into your core, eliciting a shaky cry in surprise from you.

“Ethel and yeah, she was my first.”

Though your eyes were on his, neither of you were truly there, truly focused, distracted by the way he pushed his two digits down, scissored you. Managed to make obscene sounds with your slick oozing arousal that gave you away, as his shockingly hard erection in your hand jumped and twitched.

Right as everything went black.

Right as the lights went out and the music stopped and the winds outside could be heard howling. A dim glow from the living room barely made its way into the kitchen. Easily turned on by the noises he was pulling from you, as well as how deep and roughly he pushed his fingers up in you. Like he wanted to shove his fingers as deep as his erection, up inside of you.

Lights in the house flickered back on.

Neither of you noticed.

Frank Sinatra began to liven up your living room.

Neither of you noticed.

“Did you fuck Ethel like you fuck me?”

Several deep pushes in and spreading pulls down within you were made, eye contact keep, till he shook his head, unable to look away or stop making those depraved gushy noises with your aroused center.

“I’ve never fucked anyone like I fuck you. I’ve never taken anyone in the…”

He couldn’t say it.

His cheeks grew even redder. His fingers were pounding away inside of you, while you gripped his cock like it was made of gold. Somehow, he could not say it. You could though, you could say it all day long.

“You never fucked anyone in the ass before Steve?”

Shaking his head, he went on, “I’ve never lost it with anyone else. I lose control with you almost every time. That’s why you can’t lie to me. Because I can’t lie to you.”

He watched you nod.

“Make it better Steve.”

His eyebrows met.

“Lose control with me. You’ve broken nearly every dish in this kitchen and if you shove your fingers up any damn further in me, you’ll hit my uterus. Fuck me till you can’t remember Ethel’s name and then fill my ass full of your cum for the both of us and I promise…” your right hand even went up. “I’ll never lie to you again. No matter how unpleasant it’ll be.”

All that red, it just exploded.

Steve heard bells. Steve swore he heard the ocean. He felt itchy as he pulled his hands free and set about unzipping his pants, pushing them down enough to do what he needed, not even taking the time to free his sac.

After that it was all feeling and sensation and sound.

After that it was all softness and slippery and oh so wet, sounds of wood scraping on tile and screams and cries and shrieks, nails biting into his arms and chest, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

Losing himself in your body was easy. 

It was bliss and perfection and where he went to escape and when he came so quickly that first time, never slowing or hesitating in the strokes that he powered so ruthlessly into your body, he knew he had more to do. His erection still so painfully stiff. 

His first climax was more to take off that edge, it escaped like a sneeze and had he not seen the evidence froth around your lips, where he pounded into your body as if he would be able to find a way to crawl inside of it, he would have wondered if it had been his imagination from how amazing you felt. White cum bubbled around where his member slipped in and out of you.

What a perfect pussy you had too.

Steve stared down after grabbing your ankles, spreading your thighs wide and taking you as hard and as fast as he could that way, rocking the table and making sharp noises escape from you each time.

Breathy gasps of his name.

Arms reaching out to hold something, fingers sinking into the red and white plaid tablecloth.

Tight wet walls gripped him with each and every motion in. 

Bit by bit his pants slipped, slid down, inched down, moved, until they eventually hit his knees, his thighs becoming slippery with your combined fluids as your cries and breathy moans deepened. As his cock slipped over that spot of yours deep inside enough to build you up, push you towards a climax, his grip on your ankles was tight and unrelenting.

Finding himself not overly distracted by that fucking jeweled mistletoe. Your pussy was an absolute mess and Steve watched it with utmost fascination. Wet. Sopping. Clumps of his release stuck here and there, your clit distended to catch the friction his thick member gave on each upwards and downwards motion. 

When you did come, you screamed.

You arched up off the table. Your legs shook, your thighs trembled as muscles deep within your body constricted tightly in stimulation that Steve never once slowed in delivering, chasing his own.

Screaming out in your bliss. Mouth gaping wide, eyes rolling back and pelvis pushing up into him, greedily rubbing and seeking more of that exquisite pleasure.

When he came, he got off even more at the thought of his cum inside of you. It made him pump his hips harder into you. When he gave you his seed that would cover you thoroughly up inside. It was blinding and searing in its intensity, sending him forward to rest a hand on the table as your legs flopped limp.

But no.

Ethel.

Her name was Ethel.

You had lied to him too.

You had asked him to do this, you wanted this for the both of you. 

He could still think of her name.

Grinding his teeth, still dribbling from his crown, pearl discharge still escaping in the ending final gasps of his release. Steve grabbed your knee and rolled you onto your belly. Parting your thighs allowed him to see what he had done.

You lifted your head, propped yourself up on your elbows as you gasped. Each breath from you pushed more of his cum from your slit. It smeared over your swollen lips. Your clit pushed out in its search for stimulation while your pussy gaped at him. Thighs and lips and even your puckered second hold was slippery with your own sticky cum.

Taking himself in one hand, Steve pushed the tip against your fluttering cunt. “I can still remember her name.”

You were winded, your body had a soft sheen of moisture on it.

“Again…fuck me till she’s gone and it’s only me. Then you can have my ass.”

Eager to feel you this way. Needing to feel how tight you were from behind. Steve buried himself back within your walls, making your legs shake each time, making your hands slap down to steady yourself. Hitting new places inside of you and knowing you were slippery with a combination of him and you.

Twice Steve took you like that, not intentionally, but your orgasm having piggybacked on the other as sometimes happened when your screams and yells evolved into moans, groans, bangs from your hands and your face flush against a flat surface, as your body took over, going to a primal place.

You hardly noticed until you felt fingers in your ass, followed, a few moments later, by his crown.

Still, no screams came, no yells.

Only low drawn out noises, slippery wet noises as Steve played with your clit and sank fingers into your tingling pussy. There was pain and stretching from your sphincter opening that you registered and then it wasn’t there, replaced with this overwhelming feeling of being too full, far too full.

Your legs were wet, streams of cum had dribbled down your thighs and calves to your ankles. Drool had wet the tablecloth beneath your face. All you could hear was the sounds of Steve grunting and hissing and saying your name repeatedly, snow pinging on the window and your own moans from the pleasure that had simply become far too much.

On the very last time that you came, you were soundless and trembled, felt everything inside of you break apart in hot warmth. Felt Steve collapse over you. Felt his body jerk against yours in his own frantic release.

Frank was still singing somewhere in the house, or maybe he was already on to another song?

Who cared?

You couldn’t focus on much of anything.

Which was an unfortunate thing, since the table cracked a second later, sending the both of you down to the floor in a heap of sweaty limbs and gasping torsos. 

And then, the power went out.

***

Seated there, in the nearly total dark on the kitchen floor, completely unclothed and a pale blue Fiestaware serving bowl in his lap, Steve moaned with an all kind of different pleasure. 

“These things are so good. I will die a happy man if I can spend the rest of my life eating your buttery herbed carrots.” 

It was almost romantic.

A number of the candles from the living room had been brought into the kitchen as snow continued to fall outside. A soft glow allowed you to see Steve, shoveling your grandmother’s famous carrots into his mouth, in what could only be described as a state of ecstasy.

You yourself were not so hungry.

Wearing his long sleeved black shirt, because Steve didn’t want you to get cold as the temperature in the house slowly dropped, digit by digit, you sipped a glass of wine. 

Out of one of the few remaining glasses in the kitchen.

Leaning back against the counter beside your husband, downright basking in post coital glow, while he fed his serum enhanced body like a starving man. You found yourself not being miserable for the first Christmas Eve in what felt like forever.

Sleeves pushed up to your elbows hung loose on you and the shirt hit you mid-thigh.

Still a smidge tingly down between your sticky thighs. In fact, you had not stopped tingling.

Between bites came an equally satisfied voice. “Does Peter know?”

What a silly question.

Of course Peter knew.

Whenever Peter wanted you to make something, he’d pick up the supplies at the food store along with takeout boxes from the cafeteria to put dinner in. Always helpful and loyal.

Sipping your wine, you dropped your head against Steve’s bare arm. “He knows. He wondered why I was constantly ruining dinner. I made him promise not to say anything, so don’t be mad at him.”

Noises came from Steve and you just knew he had rolled his eyes.

That pause was followed by some shifting, Steve peered down at the top of your head. “Peter’s favorite lasagna that you get from Georgetown?”

Soon you would need more wine. You were down to half a glass. In peering at it through the octopus etched in the glass, illuminated by the soft glow of candles. “May’s. She taught me how to make it. A recipe from her side of the family. I put cracked pepper into the cheese.”

“I forgive you.”

Considering what had happened over the past hour or so, you were a bit shocked by those words. 

Leading you to lift your head, peer up at Steve to cock an eyebrow.

“I would let you put that god forsaken reindeer in our bedroom forever for that lasagna.”

No words came.

None were needed. 

You dropped your head against Steve’s arm once more, dozy, tired and content. About ready to fall asleep right there…

Something shook the house.

In the distance something exploded once, and a second equally loud boom sent your head up. Bombs. Distinctly bombs. You would know what a bomb sounded like for the rest of your life and wasn’t Steve planning on putting two bombs out that day?

“What was…?”

“Hydra’s armory,” Steve responded, right around the time another explosion went off in the distance. Far larger, clearly much bigger. “You want any carrots? If not, I’m going to finish them.”

And then another explosion followed…and another.

A healthy amount of side-eye was all you could come up with, plus, “Knock yourself out.”

****

Steve didn’t get it.

Honest to god.

Hand on the bible. 

Standing on his mother’s grave.

Soft glowing came from your computer screen, battling with the fire to provide soft light in the living room. Where the makeshift bed Steve had made for the two of you rested.

Power was still out. A blizzard still raged. Staying warm was important.

You were out of it. 

Asleep. Exhausted. 

Stuffed full with two glasses of wine and a hunk of marble cheesecake.

Limp. Boneless.

Curled beneath him, legs still bare where Steve’s inky shirt didn’t reach, tangled with his. Pillows stuffed under your face. Your breathing was steady, calm, deep. Against his bicep he could feel the beating of your heart. It soothed him. It gave him deep comfort in ways that words could only hint at. A deeply sated need had been scratched. Paired with his semi-erect length buried up to the hilt within you. Steve was content.

Snugly encased within you, so warm, soft and a little wet still. No better feeling could be found on earth.

Steve did not need to move. Nor would he, could he, not for the rest of the night. Keeping you warm, safe and full was how he intended to spend his Christmas Night.

Some sort of holiday movie that he didn’t get was on the laptop.

A blonde woman had kidnapped a Hispanic man and made him go home with her for Christmas, seemed to be the hint of a plot. Steve found it all to be disturbing, yet oddly comically, gently amusing, which was quite confusing. Kidnapping did not seem like an acceptable plot feature in romantic comedy holiday films. 

Although he could not quite bring himself to wake you up to ask about it, or dare turn it off. 

Said laptop was just out of his reach.

Unable to risk waking you, Steve continued to watch in the hopes that perhaps some deeper understanding would arrive.

At the very least, maybe it’d help take his mind off that reindeer staring at him from over in the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Christmas Day** _

Something woke you up.

Pulled you out of a blissfully sound sleep. Warm and cozy, practically perfect. Which was a damn shame in your opinion. It was a good sleep. In your top five best sleeps perhaps.

So incredibly perfect was it, that it took you a moment to realize that you were on the living room floor. Even if you were wrapped up in quilts and pillows, falling backwards onto more toasty quilts and pillows that smelled like Steve. Obviously in the spot that Steve had been sleeping. Because he was no longer there, curled around behind you, sleeping for a change. Somehow you could always tell. 

Peering out from beneath the quilt, you could see Steve stumble to his feet, rub his face, push tousled hair from his forehead while yanking a blanket around himself.

Whoever was on the other end of the front door continued to knock.

You could hear Steve mutter beneath his breath.

Realizing that he’d been asleep, for real asleep, made you feel a little guilty. In pondering, you couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. In such ponderings, you realized that you couldn’t really recall December. And that was not good. You knew that for a fact. 

Cool air touched your face.

None of the lights were on. No music played.

The fireplace at your back provided the only household warmth, thus taking the wintery cold edge off in the small little home. What with the power still being out. You had a very strong suspicion that you were in for a chilly Christmas day and the thought didn’t fill you with an overwhelming urge to cry, or sob. You didn’t feel so empty, gutted even. 

Yes, you were still bummed. You were a little sad you couldn’t spend the day with your brother and aunt. 

However, the deeper you dug and squirmed down into the burrito of quilts and blankets you’d woken up in, you found that sharp sense of grief and loss wasn’t so debilitating. You weren’t about to think that a good dicking down had cured you in some way. No. You weren’t even that absurd. 

Steve had taken your mind off it. 

Decorating had distracted you.

A thought niggled. Poked. Pressed at you as sounds of Steve unlocking the front door, pulling it open, garnered your distracted attention.

Had you neglected Steve in Decembers of past?

It’d been clear at the time that he’d been more than distracted by his own plans for chaos and destruction. Still you couldn’t help but wonder, could things have been any different for the two of you if you’d done anything different?

Soft voices made you go still, snuggle down deeper. Hide beneath the layers of fabric and cotton.

No, you decided.

Nothing could have been done different. 

Now in your advanced age, twenty-something compared to nineteen or twenty or even twenty-one, you could look back with the blessing of experience. Looking back at yourself when you woke up that morning, all those years ago, to Hydra being in control compared to today…you were not that person anymore. That teenage girl who went to bed before that lifechanging morning was a completely different you.

She’d barely had the tools to handle what had happened to the world. 

Getting married before being old enough to drink, that hadn’t exactly been a stabilizing force for you. In absolutely no way had you been a calming presence for Steve either.

Even now, looking back, you couldn’t see yourself being in any way, shape or form able to handle Steve so young, forget make Christmas special and deal with the upheaval that Hydra had caused in your life.

Maybe now, maybe with everything changing over the past year, maybe things were finally starting to settle for you?

Were you getting used to Hydra?

If there could ever be a more depressing thought in the world, that was it.

Was it things between you and Steve changing? 

Could that have been it?

Something had definitely changed in the past few months between the two of you, a thing that hadn’t stopped in the little tremors the big event had caused. Whether the two of you would make it through these changes was another thing entirely. That thought had your stomach twist. Quickly, you decided, you needed to focus on something else, something other than these growing feelings you were having towards your husband.

Leading you to pull the quilt that covered you back a bit.

Steve’s voice was clear as day. Along with one of the higher-ranking Hydra loyalists you’d seen around the office. You weren’t a huge fan of the guy. But he hadn’t done anything to make you feel unwelcome or like he was suspicious of you, thought you couldn’t do your job or that you’d only gotten it because you were the directors wife.

“…so far it looks like the casualties are minimal. Several members of the security forces were supposed to be there. However the blast was so large, due to the munitions, there’s no sign of them currently. Once the fires are put out and the engineers give their ok, we’ll start a search for them. As of right now, none of them have been located and the entire armory has been destroyed.”

Steve found himself wrapped up in one of the quilts that still only reached him just below the knee, because he’d never agree to a King bed. Never. A Queen was as large as he would go. Because you still wound up touching him when you slept, curling against him, flinging your arm across his chest.

Getting woken up to one of the security chiefs was not how Steve had wanted to start Christmas Day.

Alas, he was now the Director of Hydra for North America, so some things could not be helped. Therefore, Steve listened. He nodded where was appropriate. Knowing who had blown up the armory, he inquired when was appropriate, “Do we have any idea who is behind this?”

From across the living room, Steve could see you moving around beneath the pile of blankets.

It was annoying.

He’d actually been asleep when knocking had woken him up. No big plans were planned for Christmas morning, especially now that the power was still out. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be up and away from you.

“Yes sir. Tony Stark has taken credit for the bombing.”

And Steve looked away from the pile of bedding by the fire to frown at one of his four security chiefs for the United States.

Tony Stark had claimed credit?

While highly convenient for him, it was something that deserved a reaction and Steve was able to pull off a legitimate one, instead of the fake ones he usually had to summon up from the emotional depths.

“Tony Stark claimed credit? Was he seen in the area?”

Silence.

Steve hadn’t seen anyone around the armory other than the guards when he snuck in and he was pretty sure he would have seen Tony in one of his suits. Ever since he’d lost Pepper, Tony’d become even less restrained, if that could even be said. Not that Steve could blame the genius. If anything happened to you, he couldn’t say how he’d react.

“Can I assume that we have forces out looking for the fugitive?”

Last he knew, Tony was causing problems out in California. Sure, it was entirely possible that Tony was back on the east coast. Steve just couldn’t help but feel if Tony was around, he’d make an entrance.

“Of course we are sir and as soon as electricity is restored, a statement needs to be made concerning the fugitive.”

That too was not shocking.

It was the responsible thing to do. Plus branding Tony Stark even more of a criminal would be a feather in Hydra’s hat. 

Knowing Tony, he probably enjoyed it. He probably got some sort of a thrill out of seeing his wanted posters on billboards across the nation and finding himself on Hydra Top Ten Wanted List.

When Steve informed one of his numerous advisors, “I’ll do it.” He was most surprised when the man glanced over his shoulder, had the audacity to look across the living room over to where that lump of blankets was on the floor, among a sea of Christmas Décor.

“Perhaps it should be Mrs. Hydra? Viewers have been responding better to her than any of us since filling the position. Viewership is up whenever she is on the news stations.”

All of which Steve knew to be true.

It’d been the right decision to place you in charge of Media and Public Relations. Hell, he himself would have asked if you wanted to give the public statement. 

As you were Mrs. Hydra. You were the personification of Hydra in a form that the people trusted, admired, even sought out at events when you’d be in attendance. You’d become a great source of pride for Steve. In your ability to connect with people from all walks, give them propaganda in ways that was more accepted than any public service statement from an official in a suit. Your other appearances, ones you referred to as fluff pieces or public appearances were always a boost for Hydra.

Hearing this person, this inferior, speak so casually about you made Steve bristle. Watching him cock his head around to see if he could get a look at you?

Oh no.

No.

That wasn’t going to work, not one bit.

Sadly, there would be no killing the advisor. Not with everyone knowing where he was coming and all that snow outside, which would really make getting rid of the body difficult. And since Steve didn’t want to spend an unforeseeable amount of time with a dead body in the house, he would have to take an alternative course of action and just save homicide for another day.

Yes, you were all covered up with blankets. Not so much as one of your toes could be seen peeking out. And yes, Steve knew that this man was nothing but a professional and had risked life, limb and eyesight to come down and brief him in the still snowing Christmas Morning. Which was the only reason Steve decided to be understanding, to be compassionate, to work out this sudden issue that arose with his words.

Wrapped up in said quilt, much like a college aged male making a walk of shame across a campus in a toga bedsheet, Steve stepped closer to his subordinate. Close enough that he could hear the bundled-up man’s heart kick up a few beats. “Don’t ever volunteer my wife. For anything. Or else we’re going to have a serious problem. Do you want to have a problem with me? Are we going to have a problem? If so, we can have it right now.”

You had no idea what in the hell Steve and the Hydra Lackey were discussing, or why they were whispering, nor did you care. 

To be perfectly honest, you were getting hungry and the more you moved around the more you noticed how sticky you were. Making you think about your night. 

Oh yeah.

Your night.

After that lively discussion in the kitchen, you’d been unable to shower because the power was out and the mere thought of a cold shower was a hard no for you. Your days of cold showers came to an end when you completed your reeducation.

Never again you’d sworn to yourself.

Which left you with two options. You could stay on the floor all bundled up with a protesting stomach, sticky. Or, you could go into the kitchen to take stock of the situation and see what shook loose.

Maybe you could find something to eat too.

There would be no opening the fridge. No. Never. Not till the power came back on. Or else you’d have to throw all the contents out into the snowy yard.

Pulling the trigger on that decision, you found yourself wrapping the quilts around you even further, as you stumbled up to your feet. Was the stove working? It was gas. Did it work without electricity? You’d seen Bucky light it once when the power went out with a match. Surely it couldn’t be that hard. Maybe if you could find where Steve hid the matches, you could make yourself some hot cocoa. Hell, you could maybe toast yourself up an English muffin over the open flame of the stove. 

First…matches.

After a considerable amount of stumbling, hobbling, baby-stepping and shuffling, you made your way out of the living room.

Bright light reflected into the kitchen from the outside and you found yourself gaping in horror at the whiteout outside. Causing you to pad over to the window, so you could get a look at snow. Snow. More snow. Had there ever been that much snow? 

Half the window was covered in the flurries. The backyard was a sheet of white with a few humps that could have been anything. More drifted down in an artistic sort of way, as if dancing down to the earth from the heavens.

On top of all that snow, the kitchen was a disaster.

Broken plates and glasses were all over. The table was flat on the floor and while all of the dinner dishes were still dirty, they were in the dishwasher and waiting for the power to pop back on.

Extra careful, you moseyed through the wreckage, over near the counter where you grabbed the bottle of wine from last night.

And it was empty.

Leading you to scowl and then start your hunt for matches.

If there could not be wine then hot chocolate was a must. Every drawer would be searched, every cabinet scoured.

Every drawer was searched.

Every cabinet scoured.

No matches were found.

It was almost as if, the three other souls you resided with were concerned you’d burn down the house or something. Which was utterly ridiculous. And in pondering how ridiculous, you remembered seeing some wooden chopsticks from a takeout night in a drawer. Spurring you to lift the quilts up, so they didn’t drag through the mess in your quest for the hottest of cocoa. 

Steve was no longer in the living room when you reentered, bundled up, holding your wooden chopsticks out to the fireplace, where you slipped them around the grate and into the flames. Ever motivated in the face of hot cocoa.

Hunkering over even closer to the fire, feeling it warm your face and hand, you held the wooden utensil in the fire till you were good and positive that it had caught.

And you gave it a second, wanting to be sure that the chopsticks were good and on fire.

Standing up to observe your flame. A far bigger hand took your flame.

“What are you doing?”

Steve.

Clearly it should have been obvious what you were doing. 

“Really Steve? We’ve been married for how long? You should know what I’m doing. You of all people know what I’m like.”

A bigger hand came up to shelter your chopstick torch as it grew larger. “You cannot burn down the house for warmth.”

A rolling of your eyes immediately followed.

There was a chance you may have even stomped your foot and whined in your frustration with this enhanced man. “No Steve! I was going to light the stove like Bucky did that one time to make hot choccy. Don’t be so extra. I didn’t even think about burning down the damn house for warmth.”

A look came over his face that was beyond placating and when he turned to go into the kitchen, naked as the day he was born, you felt the need to add as you followed, trailing your quilts like Princess Di worthy wedding veil.

“Besides, out of the two of us, you’re more likely to burn our house to the ground. Again.”

In your scurrying after Steve, you heard your quilts catch on and drag hunks of broken dishes and glass. Yet on you hurried to watch. Utterly fascinated. There was something about Steve’s hands. Not that they were calloused or so strong. No. It was in the skilled way his fingers pressed down on the gas knob, having done it hundreds of times. It was in how he pressed the flame to the burner which started with a whoosh. One sharp exhale later, out blew your chopstick torch and then the kettle was moved over on the burner.

Hot chocolate was a go.

Which allowed you to focus on your visitor.

Shifting around beneath your quilts, you were only a little envious of his body temperature maintaining no matter how cold. 

There was a slim chance that your eyes wandered down, as Steve began to start straightening up the disaster that was your kitchen in the morning light. 

In your remembering the bruises from last night, your eyes wandered in that general direction. Taking in his broad chest, pale Irish complexion with muscles you never knew existed, woven beneath the smooth flesh that would be hot to the touch.

Although, to your surprise, not every bruise was gone.

All the abrasions were smoothed out, not even leaving a hint of a scar. Most all of the bruises gone, having melted away. All but a little smattering of circular blue bruises on his side, over his ribs.

“You’re bruised!”

You could not begin to keep the shock from your tone, or concern. Erskine’s Serum should have healed all of those bruises overnight, considering he’d not only slept, but ate the majority of Christmas Dinner. Both of which should have provided ample fuel for the serum to do its work.

Was something wrong?

Was the serum not working?

Was it wearing off? Did the serum have some sort of a shelf life?

Somewhat surprised, your husband peered down to where your gaze was directed. Leading him to pause, before he could make it to the pantry, where the broom was located.

Baby shuffle steps were taken to close that distance, dragging your quilts through salt and pepper littered all over.

“Why are you bruised? Does it hurt? Oh my lanta! Is something wrong with you? Something can’t be wrong! I can’t handle something being wrong with you!” Panic. Yes. You were panicking. Something couldn’t be wrong with Steve. No. You couldn’t live without Steve. Oh this was bad. This was so so so bad. 

“It’s not a bruise.”

If Steve was sick, you’d take care of him. You’d make sure Hydra never got him. Hydra would never allow him to live if the serum was losing its potency. You’d love him no matter what. You would protect him. You’d make sure no one would ever hurt him, ever. You’d take him and go on the run, take him to every doctor you could find to make sure he was healthy. Everything he’d had back before he got the serum was totally treatable, you were pretty sure, maybe, kinda, who knew. You’d figure it out. You could deal with this. This would be ok. Steve would be ok. Small Steve was adorable and you’d give him all the love in the world.

Seeing your look of pure terror and absolute panic take over, Steve repeated himself. “Doll. It’s not a bruise.”

In seeing your face, Steve knew that action would need to be taken, you would need to be convinced. Although he couldn’t help but feel touched by how upset you were getting, how quickly you worked yourself up.

“Don’t worry…” you cried, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Hydra will never find out. We can hide. We can go on the run. We’ll go to Utah! No one will find us there!”

Touched.

Deep down, you touched something in him making Steve take your hand, roughly put it over the blue marks on his side. 

Firmly, he spoke your name.

Ok, firmly and a bit loudly, making you simmer down and then pause, hesitate, realize that the discolored skin beneath your fingers felt odd, not totally right, off even. Frowning, you smoothed your palm over his always feverish feeling skin, to notice that the blue marks were a bit rough.

“Not a bruise,” he reiterated. “Hydra has been experimenting with ink to tattoo enhanced humans in their registration system.”

Such words made your frown deepen.

“Bucky managed to get his hands on it to see if it was viable. We needed to test it to see if it’s something we needed to destroy.”

Such words made their way in. Such words made your frown deepen.

You simply could not believe it.

You began to realize what Bucky and Steve had done. Leading you to finally look at Steve. Nose scrunched up. Lower lip dropping. Eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight…you let Bucky do this to you? You let Bucky tattoo your beautiful smooth skin?”

Oh how quickly you moved to outrage.

Oh how he loved you.

“Doll, I’m not going to ask Bucky to do something I’m not willing to do myself.”

And you knew you should have been proud. You knew that those words were selfless and what a good leader would do. 

Still though, you found yourself rubbing the roughened skin and being just unable to even understand what the hell the two of them were thinking, even though you totally knew what they were thinking and why, and totally would have supported if you’d have been in the know.

“When? When did this happen? Was Bucky going for something? Or was he just making weird circles on your skin for shits and giggles?”

There was his girl.

All bundled up and looking downright adorable, irritated, bewildered, he couldn’t have felt more treasured at your outrage.

“Earlier this month,” was what he told you, keeping the fact it was the night before Peter left so he knew you wouldn’t notice. “Bucky traced a bruise you left behind from the last time we were together before last night.”

Your smoothing your fingers stopped.

And you were on to a new emotion. A third in such a short amount of time, that was quite a feat, even for you. 

Bewildered, your head snapped back down to more closely inspect Bucky’s work and at first, you didn’t see it. In tilting your head and taking a step back, you still didn’t quite see it. You didn’t see it until Steve took your hand. His knowledgeable fingers pressed your thumb against one blueish spot, lined up the palm of your hand against the largest inking, while adjusting your fingers to wrap around in an exact replication of how you’d held him that previous time.

“Oh…” was the best you could come up with in that moment of understanding.

No other words came to you. None other seemed to fit. Nothing seemed to convey what you felt at the discovery of him marking up his body, possibly permanently, with a mark you’d left on him during a moment of intimacy.

Not that you needed to say anything. Your silence was more than enough of a response. Your silence and the way your eyes watered, the way you toyed with your lower lip and were quiet.

****

“Why on earth would Tony take credit for bombing the armory?”

You of all people couldn’t understand it.

You of all people wouldn’t go around claiming responsibility for bombing anything belonging to Hydra, even if your life depended on it. Why a man as famous as Tony Stark would do such a thing was just beyond your ability to comprehend.

Nor did it seem to be talk fitting for your current surroundings. 

However, you could not be held responsible for the things that came out of your mouth when Steve washed your hair. And he did not merely wash your hair. Oh no. The man in question sat behind you in your tub, which was on the smaller side, one of those basic model tub shower fixtures that were in all the houses, legs that stretched forever wrapped around you as he rubbed conditioner in your scalp like it was his sole purpose ordained by god above.

Massaged it into your sopping wet hair that he’d previously spent nearly twenty minutes shampooing and rinsing with hot water, in the tub around you.

Nine trips had been made with the soup pot full of water, boiled up on the stove, made bearable and not scalding by some nice cold water from the tub. Each pot of boiling water brought back memories of doing the same thing back in the apartment he shared with his mother. Although she was the one carrying pots of hot water, so he could bathe and stay warm on cold winter nights.

“Who knows why he does what he does? I’d like to think he’s doing it to distract Hydra away from me.” It was something that he’d been giving thought to, on and off, since the visit earlier. Even there, in the tub with you, all crammed and wedged into the small space, his thoughts may have wandered that way. “All I know is, he’s going to be pleased to see his face on the news tonight. We’ll be hearing from him a lot more in the coming year.”

You almost cared.

Almost.

Almost but not totally, not with how wonderful the magic fingers that dug into your scalp felt, as they rubbed the conditioner down into your roots, or so it felt. Magic fingers stroked your scalp, rubbed your neck and behind your ears, played with your hair by twisting it and running fingers through it. Steve made sure every last bit of your hair was thoroughly conditioned. 

All the little noises that came from you were almost enough to fully distract him.

Oh they pleased him. They made him hard and led him to spend even more time rubbing you, in order to elicit more moans, groans, hisses. Not that anything remotely interesting could happen.

In a little under the two-hour mark, the both of you would need to head down to the television station so you could be featured, give out Hydra’s Official Statement in response to the bombing and name Tony Stark as Hydra’s number one most wanted fugitive. 

Hopefully, by the time you returned home the power would be on. Power had been restored to that side of the city, inching ever closer to your neighborhood. Hopefully before it was time for dinner. Until then, you’d be bathing by the light of many candles. All of which created a lovely glow. Scattered around on the floor and toilet and counter of the small bathroom.

No, there was no time for horseplay, and the cold shower that Steve would take when he was done conditioning your hair would take care of his erection.

A question about Tony Stark, something you wondered about really, died a million fiery deaths on your tongue when those magic slippery fingers made their way down the back of your neck, over your shoulders. A pop of your back following. Leading to a sensation of warmth and floating and utter bliss, that had you sagging boneless against a wall of wet male perfection. “Oh shit…oh god don’t stop…”

If the house caught on fire from all the candles, you would have died a happy woman.

Well aware of just how little time there was to toy around with, considering how long it took you to make yourself camera ready, Steve knew he’d have to rinse the conditioner from your hair very soon. Very soon. Extraordinarily soon. 

In just a moment in fact.

Sliding his hands down your shoulders, over your chest, his hands spread out and easily took hold of your breasts, encompassed them, thumbs brushing over your nipples. Drawing out some more noises from you. Sounds that voiced your pleasure with what he was doing, along with how delightful it felt. Further adding some steel to the erection that was wedged up between the two of you.

Somehow, in some way, your breasts seemed to fill his hands just right. Soft and bouncy, topped with sensitive nipples. Your piercings were just an added gift. 

Caught between soft and hard, Steve began to toy with the gold bars that speared the delicate flesh, till your nipples were hard little nubs. Continuing to twist and tug on the gold jewelry. 

A wet smacking noise came when the back of your head made contact with his chest.

He was well aware you’d closed your eyes, could feel you arch back into him and push your breasts harder into his hands, wanting more contact, more stimulation.

And then he heard it…Christmas music.

Sounds distinctly of power coming back on filled the house. Although not in the bathroom, as the power had not been on in there when it had gone out.

Still though, he heard and felt, in his own enhanced way, the heat kick on in the house, working its way through the vents and the hot water heater kicking back on. Clicks and dings came from appliances throughout the house.

“Keep touching me ‘teve…”

It shouldn’t have, it really shouldn’t have, but the whining pitch to your voice, your neediness, it did something to him. Scratched a part of him deep down. It made him feel so good. Knowing you were desperate for him, led Steve towards dark wicked thoughts that would keep you both in the tub and make you both late.

Squeezing your slippery nipples, conditioner smearing around, you squirmed against him more so from the sharp goodness he was pulling from you. 

“Tell me where.”

Whining. Huffing. Squirming.

Words never really came and Steve smirked in a way a master artisan would, upon completing something perfect. 

A fidget came from you and with a pop, your thighs opened, you wiggled against Steve, taking one hand from your breast to push it down. Further enflaming him, filling him with pride from the depths of his most primal nature. In sinking his fingers into the watery depths, the smooth crystals affixed to your mound brushed against his palm. 

Still, Steve could not believe you’d done such a thing to this most sacred of places, his place, was a thought that flickered. Because as much as it belonged to you and it being the future where things were much different between the sexes. Steve would still always consider you his, he would always think of you as belonging to him, every last inch of you to include this now jeweled part.

Smooth, you were so smooth. 

And wet, even in the steamy bath, Steve could feel the change in the water where your arousal seeped from you. Slippery in water, thicker. 

How could you have done this to his mound? His cunt? Rip out all your soft public hair? Then to have stones glued on? No matter how cute you thought they looked. 

“Doll, you can never do this to my pussy again. This feels so wrong. It doesn’t feel like you.” Steve gave your breast a firm squeeze till you arched against him. “That feels like _mine_.” A rubbing was delivered to your piercing, his words hot against your ear. “ _Mine_. Feel that? Its _mine_.”

To even think that he hadn’t been the first and only person in your body, to see you undressed, god if that didn’t do something to him nothing would. It stirred up things. It sent his fingers down over your clit, through your lips that were beginning to swell, to your entrance. Cum swirled around in the water around his hand, made you a little slippery in the water.

Feeling your skin on his was so wrong. So wrong. It almost felt like a different woman. Almost. Pushing two long fingers up inside of you, yeah, that felt right. That felt like it was supposed to. Tight. Cushy. Warm. It was sanctity. There was no other way to describe how it felt to be up in your body. There was an almost primordial feeling to feeling your walls clench around him, push up into you. Steve could lose himself in you.

“Push down. Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

Obediently you listened to him. Rewarded with his thumb brushing over your clit.

“That feels right. Now this feels like _mine_. Squeezing the shit out of me…you feel that?” That being the addition of a third finger. Those fingers opening inside of you, spreading you, scissoring you open. Earning a cry, a mewl, a nod. Not enough though, Steve wanted more and needed more and he tugged on your piercing till you gasped and reached back for him, grabbed at his hair. “Tell me how it feels. You feel that?”

Breathy cries came from you, “Yes! Yes! I feel it! I feel you! It feels good! It feels so good Steve!”

Such words made him happy.

Feeling you curl to one side, tuck into yourself. You were close. You were really close. Leading him to further his pursuit, his stroking of your clit and rubbing up against that spot inside of you. The one that seemed to make your breath hitch each time. Twisting your nipple was what did it, what made you unravel against him, tremble and shake as you climaxed. Around his fingers, muscles deep inside of you tightened around him, making him smirk.

“Feel good? This beautiful little pussy is milking the hell out of me.”

Your climax was intense, it rocked you back and had you sinking fingers into the damp locks of his hair. Bright colors came into your vision. Your body went stiff, tense. When Steve sank his teeth into your shoulder, you gasped.

You hardly had a chance to react at the loss when Steve withdrew his fingers. Your mouth opened, your body hit its peak in the throes of your orgasm. Only when the head of his cock rubbed against your clenching opening did you react, and that was only to let out a breath of air, a bellow almost, a ripping gasp at the intrusion.

Steve merely lifted you up and allowed you to slide down his thick shaft, reveling in how your body continued to clench and bite him so deliciously. He watched your cunt swallow him up inside of you in awe that you fit. Drank in the surprised cries, followed by the deep throaty noises of female ecstasy. Small hands reached out to smack against the tub to steady yourself. Followed by soft grunts, moans, mumbling to yourself that he easily heard. 

“Oh god…yes...mmmm…”

Sounding like a prayer to his ears and how you felt clenching around his painful cock, a religious experience in itself. He’d already come in the water, his cloudy release swirling into the rest of the bodily fluids, soap and shampoo.

It was time to wash the conditioner out of your hair.

Reaching over, Steve grabbed a plastic cup that had made its way home from the convention center and after running his hand through the sudsy bathwater, he filled up the cup, tilted your head back and began to pour water over your conditioned hair. Cup after cup of hot water. Steve ran fingers through your hair, poured a cup of water over, combed his fingers through, poured another cup, stroked your scalp, till your hair was free of conditioner.

All as you sat with his erection buried up inside of you. Breathing in through your nose. Clenching your hands into fists. 

Yes.

That absolutely felt like you. So perfectly wonderfully you.

“You feel so good doll.”

A moan of agreement came in response.

So good.

****

The Twelves Days of Christmas.

It was the only Christmas song that Steve hated. God did he hate it. 

Sadly, he could hear you humming it in the bathroom as you did your makeup, having spent close to half an hour on your hair alone. Which still was a bit over the top to him. But it was one of your quirks. Or that was what Bucky referred to it as. Peter said it was just the way of modern women.

Somewhat irritably, Steve adjusted his stiff collar then eyed his reflection in the full length bedroom mirror.

Since the power was back on, the Hydra Holiday Party at the Mayor’s Mansion was back on, which meant Steve had to go. Putting him in the odd position of wishing the power never came back on and that meant his dress uniform had to come out.

Black slacks with a red strip up both legs. Shiny black shoes. A crimson long sleeved dress top that reminded Steve so much of his Army dress uniform. Black buttons with the Hydra octopus on each up the front, on the sleeves, on the shoulders. On one side of his chest was a brick of numerous ribbons. On the other side were several large black pins and his name on a black plaque badge. Rogers. A high collar with those black round Hydra buttons. A black belt synced his narrow waist.

Words could not describe how much he despised this uniform.

It was a mockery, an abomination.

Knowing that he very likely could be buried in it set his teeth on edge.

Hearing you sing out the twelve-day countdown made him roll his eyes, then look back to the mirror to adjust his collar one last time.

Freshly shaven. Dark golden hair slicked back.

If he had to look at himself one second longer, he was going to put his fist through the mirror. Thus leading him two steps to the right, over to his dresser, where his watch and wallet waited.

Wallet in his back pocket.

His watch…

…that wasn’t his watch.

His godforsaken watch was a sleek black electronic number that he was almost positive monitored him, given to him by Hydra, was not on his dresser. Instead there was a leather banded silver watch that had a green bow with red polka dots on it.

Slowly he picked it up. Felt the soft leather beneath his fingers, felt the weight of the silver, heard the ticking of the arms.

It was old.

Vintage.

Steve remembered seeing these as a teenager when they were new. Such things were so far outside his realm of possible, he’d never even wanted one.

Jerking his head up, he could hear you starting over on the Twelve Days of Christmas.

Very gently, he pulled off the bow and then walked across the bedroom, into the bathroom, where he could see you applying that red matte lipstick with well-practiced skill.

One more thing that he could have never even fathomed as a teenager.

Wrapped up in a knee length long sleeved dress, high collar, folded and cut stylishly, elegantly, much like the women who were married to the iron and steel barons of his day. Pausing, you pressed your lips together and then touched up your bottom lip.

Black too. 

In protest of Hydra red ruining Christmas red. Paired with your lips. His throat tightened. 

You would go on the news to deliver the statement that Steve and the security chiefs had come up with and then, on to the party that you had missed every year.

You’d done something to your eyes that made them look bigger yet softer, with silver and greys. Somehow your eyelashes looked longer. Sorcery. How you made your hair go into those big wavy curls with only a hairdryer and round brush? Pure sorcery. 

“Turn around doll.”

When you turned, Steve realized that he could not kiss you as he wanted. You got very upset when he ruined your lipstick in times like these.

Therefore, Steve leaned down to press his lips to the top of your head, held out his hand and gave you the watch knowing that you’d know what to do. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

His chest grew tighter the second you began to belt the strap.

Little innocuous touches. 

Soft. Fleeting. 

Little more than a brush of skin to skin.

It was perfect because you were perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

_**December 28** _

_I don’t want a lot for Christmas…there is just one thing I need…_

Sparky the reindeer stood sentinel beside the couch, his back being used as a table for your nail polish, files and a plate of gingerbread cookies. Baked goods that you no longer had to pretend were made by the nearly blind old lady who lived three houses down the street.

Mariah Carey serenaded you with the most lively of all Christmas Ballads.

Dinner baked in the oven.

All the decorations remained up, on and festive as ever, while you lounged on the couch with December’s Issue of Cosmo. Tapping a pen against your lip. Taking a quiz that would determine whether you and Steve were compatible or not. Such results could wind up predicting the future of your life together. Therefore, your concentration was absolute and utmost.

Even if your feet bopped to Mariah.

_…all I want for Christmas is you…_

Having had the afternoon mostly to yourself was both good and bad.

You’d had time to lounge around, cook, do some laundry, redo that laundry when you realized you’d forgotten to add detergent and then catch up on your reading, tv watching and call Aunt May. As you were a bit behind from your Holiday Blues.

Having had a two-hour long chat with Aunt May, you had a good cry afterwards. Oh how much you missed her. You missed her voice. You missed being held by her. You missed sitting at the table together, drinking coffee and chatting. You missed vegging out on the couch with your head in her lap, Aunt May playing with your hair while the two of you watched tv. 

Still though, you always sent Peter home when Hydra allowed a single visitor to go see May.

Peter was younger. Peter was Enhanced. Peter needed that time with your aunt more than you did. You’d got to speak with Peter for a bit during the call and for most of that conversation you promised him you’d be good, you promised not to do anything bad. You even told Peter that Steve had found out about your cooking issue. 

After the call that was followed by a good cry, you decided to do some work.

What was it Doctor Phil said? If you wanted your relationship to work, you had to work on your relationship. Or was that a comedian you’d seen on a Netflix special? 

Who could remember?

But you decided to work on your relationship with Sparky providing moral support. And that was how you wound up taking Cosmo’s quiz of the month. In your comfiest of vintage dresses, a red button up number with black dots. You’d spread a blanket over your legs and wound up kicking it off due to the fire. Cranked up to its highest setting. So sure, it was snowing again. Jim Cantore Levels of snow were out of side. According to the weather channel, the blizzard was over. 

However, it looked like the arctic outside of your cozy little house. 

You yourself had not ventured out into all that winter. Not since you’d got home with Steve from the Hydra Christmas Party. And it wasn’t looking too good that late afternoon either. Tomorrow was a possibility, but you weren’t holding your breath.

_…I don’t care about the presents…_ your girl Mariah crooned.

Steve had gone out a few hours ago in exercise clothing. Which meant nothing. For all you knew, he could have been out killing some Hydra official or checking out someplace to bomb next. Sure, Steve was out running for miles in the snow. You personally knew, he wasn’t that interested in getting his steps in. 

Although, four hours after he’d left, you finally heard the front door unlock and open after you circled B on the quiz, qualifying your sex life as active. You weren’t about to circle A for ‘Super Duper Frequently’ because that seemed like a bit much. And it sure as hell wasn’t C, for ‘Could be more frequent.’ 

Tapping your feet on the blanket, you only sorta looked up as Steve hurried inside, shaking snow off as he shut the door, locked it, yanked off his hat and gloves in a hurry to get the cold off.

“If you’re looking for a new target to blow up, Nordstrom still hasn’t refunded me from triple charging my card in November.” That particular Nordstrom was dead to you, so you were fine with Steve blowing the ‘scene of the crime’ to smithereens.

Without waiting for an answer, your attention returned to the quiz.

Your relationship wasn’t going to work on itself.

Not that Steve seemed to notice your hard work. Oh no. From over where he shook snow from his hair and shed layers, kicked off shoes, his flushed red face tightened at the sight of you. Seemingly where you were when he’d left four hours ago. Smells from the kitchen told him you had to have gotten up at some point. That song that was everywhere was still playing, over and over, because you were worshiping at the altar Queen Mariah and apparently had to make up for all the times you missed the song during your blues. Your words not his. Those were definitely not his words.

If he had to hear that woman whistle one more time…

No, no…you were doing better, feeling better. You were sassing him for Pete’s Sake. 

“Dinner smells amazing doll,” was what Steve said instead as the whistle singing began, making him wince as his ears began to tingle from the warm air.

Not looking up or even pausing in whatever you were doing with that months Cosmo, your retort nearly got something thrown at your head. 

“I haven’t started yours yet. Did you want me to fry you up a purple or blue Pop-Tart for dinner?”

Clearly you were feeling considerably better. You had to have been. Dinner smelled suspiciously like lasagna.

“We’re totally outta green though. Which I am fully prepared to assume responsibility for…”

Eye rolling. 

Steve was absolutely unable to help himself. He rolled his eyes as if that would fix everything. Once he was down to a base layer of sweaty running pants and a long sleeved compression shirt, he stepped into the festive wonderland that was the living room.

Tree twinkling and fire going, that little train circled underneath the tree while candles were lit. 

It seemed you had gotten up. You’d drug Sparky over to the couch where a plate of cookies rested on his furry back. Up in his antlers, rested your cell phone, attached to its charging cable.

“What’re you doing?”

Still your eyes were intent on your Cosmo. As if you could solve all the big questions within its pages. You only sorta noticed Steve padding into the living room. 

“Taking a quiz to determine if we’re compatible. If not, our marriage could be in hella real jeopardy.”

Another eyeroll almost came, it was close, so very close.

And to think, Steve had been at the office while you were here, doing the heavy lifting and hard work. Granted you had made dinner. So he could tolerate your absurdity when the house smelled so wonderful. Hints of herbs, tomato and garlic, plus cheese, oh he was definitely picking up on hints of cheese. Lots of cheese.

Reaching into his pocket, Steve pulled out a folded-up piece of paper that he dropped down onto your chest. Right before starting his trek towards the kitchen, where those smells that called out to him in a divine sort of way emanated.

Paper that was a little damp from his sweat. However, you were curious.

In slipping your purple pen into the magazine to hold your place, so you could continue your important work, you picked up said paper. “What’s this?”

Steve’s broad back and that perfect ass were already walking into the kitchen when he responded. 

He grabbed a bottle of water from the pack by the door and then cracked the oven to peer in. 

Shells. You’d made stuffed shells for dinner.

He was never eating another damn Pop-Tart for as long as he lived. 

“Something I’ve been working on for a few months. It finally came through.” After which, he cracked the cap on his water and noticed up on the kitchen counter, there was some sort of baked good. Rolls upon closer inspection. Sipping down half the bottle and stepping closer, Steve knelt down to the counter to smell. Garlic. Butter. More herbs. It was so easy to forgive you when you made things like this for dinner.

Still damp, sweaty.

Not so much from the exercise but the cold and wearing all those layers. He didn’t need all those layers. But if he didn’t want to draw attention when running, he needed to bundle up.

Smelling himself before taking another sip to parch his thirst, Steve decided that a shower was most definitely his next course of action. Outside in the blizzard he hadn’t been cold. He still felt like a two-legged furnace, all things considered.

Which led him to turn, sip some more water and look back into the living room where you were sitting upright, barefeet on the floor, face wet from tears. You were shaking. That piece of paper unfolded in your hands. 

Not the reaction he’d expected.

Nope.

Quickly setting down the bottle, Steve hurried out of the kitchen so he could sit down beside you, put a hand on your back, figure out why on earth he’d made you cry. Really cry too. Big fat wet tears were just streaking down your face. 

Never in the entire time you’d been married had he seen you cry like this.

“Doll? What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did I say something wrong, or do something? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” 

His panic was sudden and immediate. 

Had he said something? Done something? Had he forgotten something? These tears were so fast and plentiful and he was suddenly terrified that he’d done it. Had he miscalculated something? 

And it only got worse. You held the sweaty damp paper to your chest and keeled over. Sobs began to wrack your body. The sound of them alone was the worst torture. It was a deep sob, a painful weeping. Coming from someplace deep within you as if you’d lost something precious.

Had he given you the wrong piece of paper?

No, he hadn’t, right?

Steve was beginning to second guess himself. Reaching down, he held a hand between your shoulders and gripped your bicep. When you didn’t pull away, he took the leap and figured that he hadn’t directly made you bawl hysterically. He hadn’t been the one to utterly destroy you like this.

“Doll? Hey…talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. I can’t fix it unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

Relief filled him when you sat up…in a way…hugging that piece of paper to your chest like it was precious. Tears ran down your face. Your lips trembled and you shook like a leaf. Never in his entire marriage had he ever seen you like this, ever.

You looked right at him. 

Seeing his concern just made you sob even more, even harder. Something having shattered inside of you when you read the paper Steve had tossed down on you, so casually. As if the words hadn’t completely upended your world.

Steve had Aunt May transferred to DC. 

According to the paperwork, which you’d only made halfway through, he did so under the guise of wanting to use Uncle Ben’s Security Company within Hydra more, and wanting to keep a closer eye on May.

Steve was bringing Aunt May to DC. 

It just broke you.

A noise that could have come from a wounded dying animal escaped from you. You could not contain the emotions that bubbled up. They fought and clawed and made their way out of you like little beasts.

“Are you happy? Is it ok? You have to stop crying,” he told you and all you could do in response was nod.

It was ok. It was most definitely ok. It was better than ok.

Somehow, in some way, you managed to choke out. “You…you…you…ab-ab-abused…your…your power…f-fo-for me…”

Like you just told him it was snowing outside, Steve seemed bewildered. “Of course I did. We’re a family. I would do anything for you.”

More tears.

A whole reserve of feelings and emotions and things you shoved down, bottled up, kept to yourself overflowed. A whole new big wave of hysterical sobbing erupted from you and you sagged forward, into his arms, letting it all out against his damp chest. A good sound solid cry, one that you never really let yourself have finally managed to escape.

In that very second, Steve seemed to get it.

It wasn’t him. 

You weren’t this mess of emotions because of him. Sure he could have triggered it. But he hadn’t done this to you. Hydra had done this to you. Hydra had done this to both of you. Hydra had done this to your lives and families, found and biological or otherwise.

Everything was finally getting out.

You couldn’t begin to control it. Everything in you sort of crumbled at this gesture from him, this one little thing he’d done without even asking. It was quite possibly the most touching and beautiful thing anyone had ever done for you.

No words would ever fully convey your gratitude to him. No words could ever express how much you loved him, how much this meant to you. In no way could you express to Steve how this had stitched a part of you deep inside back together.

Steve kissed the top of your head. He wrapped his arms around you and rubbed your back. as your fingers dug into his sweaty clothes, letting you weep. Secure in the knowledge that you were happy for all the work he and Bucky had done to get Aunt May shipped to DC. No matter how you expressed it.

“Let it out. Get it all out, doll.”

***

Soft little strokes along your sides stole your concentration. Gentle touches with his fingertips along your stomach, up under your shirt where he could feel the soft skin of your tummy. Steve’s long fingers seemed to have taken on a life of their own.

Gentle kisses were lazily on the top of your head.

A Christmas Movie was on you’d seen hundreds of times before, maybe even thousands.

Until a brief touch turned into a lingering one, softly, gentle, until you shifted beside him. A soothing reassuring touch lingered over the cups of your bra, as Clark drove down the road with his family and a massive pine tree, roots intact, on the roof of his family station wagon.

Your breath was still a bit wobbly. A little hiccup escaped every now and then from all the crying, sobbing.

Your eyes still burnt, were red and your head hurt just a bit.

Steve’s fingers were brushing over your bra though.

Honestly, you couldn’t say if he even knew he was doing it. His breath was steady on the top of your head and his attention was on the movie. The arm around your back was loose, boneless even. His fingers danced almost limply over the shell of your bra.

And you couldn’t concentrate on the movie anymore.

While you hadn’t even been thinking about sex. 

Now you couldn’t not think about it.

You couldn’t help but be reminded that he was right next to you. Big. Powerful. He’d held and comforted you till you stopped crying. Set up pillows on the floor so you could curl up by the fire and watch Christmas movies together. _A Christmas Story_ over and dinner on the stove cooling, you were now starting _Christmas Vacation_ and Steve was absentmindedly touching you.

Thinking about it…you couldn’t do anything wild, nothing like Christmas Eve’s antics.

But he was touching you.

Steve was touching you.

You couldn’t not notice.

Which led you to sit up, secure in the knowledge that it would get Steve’s attention and it did. 

It pulled his gaze from the TV.

It made him look up, blink, take in the sight of you unbuttoning the front on your dress with the fire at your back. Eyes still bloodshot and lips puffy.

Vulnerable did not begin to cover how you appeared.

Before a word could come from Steve, you were pushing the dress off your shoulders. You were undoing your belt. 

Steve wanted to say something. He did. Really he did. But you’d finally stopped crying. A couple of times he thought you were done, but they’d just been false alarms and now you’d been not bawling for a solid hour. He didn’t dare say anything for fear he’d say the wrong thing.

Up until you reached behind yourself.

Top part of your dress hanging down. Belt shucked aside. Reaching back behind yourself, you unhooked your bra and tossed that aside too. 

Out your breasts fell and heaven help him, did Steve love your breasts. Golden bars glowing in the fire light.

Deep within his jogging pants he felt himself ache.

No words still.

Which was fine. You didn’t really have any words either. You didn’t need any words to convey how you felt, or how desperately you needed to be touched. Reaching out, you took his hands in your own and placed them on your bare breasts. Your nipples already tight from your need and want for Steve. 

You didn’t care that he still had his running clothes on. You didn’t care that he hadn’t showered. You didn’t care.

Something had snapped when he touched your bra.

You needed him.

You needed him to touch you. You needed him to kiss you and lick you. You needed him to hold you. You needed to feel his skin on your skin. You needed him to make love to you and fuck you, or something somewhere in the middle.

You were floating around and you needed Steve to bring you back down to earth.

When Steve moved, your breath broke.

You almost shuddered in your relief.

On the movie played as Steve sat up, as Steve reached out for your breasts, clenched them and palmed them, stroked your nipples with his thumbs. His hair was dirty. Wet and sweaty and dried messily. He smelled like sweat and something heady and it was making your panties wetter with each passing second.

Steve pressed your breasts together. He leaned down to toy with one nipple with the tip of his tongue. Fingering your other nipple, rolling it around and pressing on the piercing. Devouring you in his wet mouth. Steve sucked hard enough you knew you’d have a mark.

And you wanted him to mark you.

You wanted him to leave marks when he smelled like a primal version of himself, when his hair was messy and you knew his skin would be sticky from dried sweat. He’d held you so gently. He’d been tender and caring and had abused his authority to put what was left of your family back together.

You wanted him.

You wanted him so much it hurt.

You wanted to smell like him. You wanted to have marks from him. You wanted to leak him all night long and feel him with every step you took tomorrow.

You wanted him to know that you got it.

You wanted him to know that you understood.

He was right.

You weren’t just his wife, _just_ a spouse. 

You were a family and that word felt different, it sat different, it was different than any union brought together by Hydra.

Steve sucked on your nipple, toying with it with his tongue. Holding your other in his hand tightly, flicking your nipple and twisting your piercing. Making your breath deepen and your fingers sink into his hair.

It already felt different.

Your fingers tugged a bit harder and the noises you were making were needier, more pitched, more everything. Steve could feel it. Something had changed. It was obvious. It wasn’t bad or negative or even neutral. Steve couldn’t quite tell what it was yet. He just knew that something had changed between the two of you and as much as he wanted to lay you down on the floor, lose himself in your body, make you both feel nothing but mind shattering release. He couldn’t. Not at that moment anyway. You needed something far different from him and he was desperate to give it to you.

He wanted to give you everything.

Steve needed to climb into you, sink in deep and never let go.

Steve rubbed his face between your breasts, pressed his cheek against the soft firm skin and inhaled the fresh clean scent of you deeply. Having long since memorized how your piercings felt on his tongue and between his lips. He licked your nipples, sucked on them, tugged on the golden bars, till the smell of your arousal was evident.

Even then, Steve was not done. No, not entirely.

Grabbing you, helping you back down to the floor, on the blankets and pillows spread out, not done though. Steve climbed on you and once more cupped your breasts together that had flattened out. He kissed one nipple and then then other. Squeezed one tit and then the other. So firm and perky in his hands.

“…please…”

It came from you in a hoarse throaty whisper. 

Making Steve look up as he held your breasts tight in each palm, mouth watering at the sight of them and you beneath him. Smelling like sin. Young and almost innocent beneath him. His dick was so hard it was painful. Inside his briefs was sticky from his pre-ejaculate and almost regretfully, Steve rose up off you. Only to pull his stretchy shirt over his head, fling it aside. Shove his pants and briefs down his muscular thighs and calves, kicking them aside too. Finally unclothed beside you.

In doing so, he was greeted to the sight of you shoving your dress down. Your panties down as well.

That goddamn crystalized mistletoe glittered up at him from your smooth mound, hairless pussy continuing to taunt him.

Your breasts though.

They heaved and were wet from his saliva and Steve found himself curling back over you, pushing you back down to the floor. Taking one nipple between his teeth and pulling till you gasped. He then did it to the other. Taking time to go back and tongue, press, pull and rub almost in worship.

Nothing but sensations filled you.

Wet and hot, hot shooting fire and burning, aching, teeth and that soft inside of his mouth. Plump red lips slick with his spit.

A cry came from you when he bit you.

Who could say how it happened? 

Maybe it was you?

Perhaps it was him?

Neither of you cared.

All you knew was you’d never been wetter in your life. All you were was wet down there. Wet. Gloopy. Oozing. 

So much bigger than you, powerful. Overpowering. A chest so wide, broad. Muscular arms that came down and held your neck, as he pushed into you with his erect organ. Pushing into you with quick thrusts. Seating himself deeply. Making you gasp at the intrusion into your body and though you were aroused, he was still sizable.

That grip on your throat tightened.

“Look at me. Look at me,” Steve breathed against your mouth, pushing in further and further, sinking in deeper and deeper, invading your molten tightness. In your eyes he could see you struggle to take all of him so fast, so much. If it were even possible, your mouth was a perfect O. “Look at me when I’m inside of you. Don’t look away. Look at me when I’m this deep.”

Your pussy was almost too tight. Too wet. Too much.

Steve fought to keep himself under control as you squeezed him. Steve tried hard not to notice how soft and wet your tits were pressed against his chest. As his tip pushed against the soft flesh wall of your cervix, his eyes never left yours.

“Feel me?”

Wordlessly, you nodded.

You couldn’t speak.

You couldn’t. You were stuffed so full of him, you felt like you’d pop at the seams. You were stretching so much, you wondered if your hymen had somehow magically knit itself back together. He’d never felt so fucking thick and big.

Steve pressed his forehead to yourself. Holding you at your throat, he began to slowly move, slowly pull out to push back. Never once did he look away. Once or twice he pressed his lips to yours, licked your mouth, nibbled on your lip or whispered to you, never letting go of you.

“Feel that?” He’d ask.

You’d nod.

“Feel me?” He’d implore.

“Yes,” you’d whisper

Again, he’d kiss you, pushing down into you where there was nothing but the floor. Allowing you to feel every last inch of him inside you, against you, rub over your clit and press you down onto the quilts.

You clung to his back, grabbed at his shoulders. You held on tight as he made his way into you, through you. 

The fireplace was forgotten. The movie forgotten. Sparky was nothing but a memory as you watched those blue pools, felt yourself start to unravel, held on tight till Steve was all you could see or hear, or smell and feel. Until he had invaded every last one of your senses.

It escaped.

It just sort of, slipped out.

Maybe he helped push it out? Then again, it could have been time? Stars aligned perfectly syncing up in the universe and all that? Or maybe it was something he’d said or done? Steve grunted above you, sweaty hair sticking together as it swept across his forehead. Cheeks red and porcelain body slick with sweat.

“I love you.”

And he stopped.

He stopped.

All of it stopped.

Above you, Steve stared down, lower fuller lip parted. Blue eyes observing you closely. Dark blonde brows knitting together. Half in and half out of you, his erection covered with a mixture of you both.

No hesitation came from him even though his words were shocked, stunned.

“Say it again.”

Licking your lips, you swallowed. Voice still soft. Still a little tender. Not quite back to full strength from earlier. “I love you…I I’ve loved you…a while now.”

And you did.

You really really did. You’d been unable to say those words though, those exact words just wouldn’t come out. Not till then. Not till Steve called you the f-word. 

“Again. Tell it to me again.”

“I love you.”

Words only having left your lips when he kissed you. When he leaned down to take your mouth in his, inhale your very soul and brand you with his embrace. Hands cupping your face. Long fingers sinking into your hair. Steve kissed you as if his very life depended on it. He took your lower lip between his, swept his tongue into your mouth and sank down into you with a knowing that was seamless.

He seduced your mouth with his. He held you close till you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

Between kisses and touches and a stretching out of his body over yours, that allowed you to feel every last taut inch of him over you. You heard frantic hasty whispers that had to come out. Except to say them would mean he would have to stop touching you, kissing you, melding into you and that was simply unbearable. 

Meaning his words ran together in their desperation to get out.

“…metoo…yes…love you…oncemore…again…tellme again…loveyoutoo…somuch…againdoll…”

Because he could not stop kissing you for the life of him. Unable to stop or slow down. Something inside of him very much coming apart too.

***

You weren’t merely asleep, or napping, you were out like a light.

Exhausted and spent beside him. It’d been a while since you’d moved. 

Considering how much you’d wept all over him, how fiercely you’d sobbed, he wasn’t at all shocked. After that much expunging of emotions and feelings and things you’d obviously suppressed for a long time, a rest was just what you needed. And rest you did. 

Face pressed against his chest. Softly snoring. Plopped down on him on the couch, as Steve was subjected to Clark Griswold’s antics again, as for some reason the movie was replaying and he was almost positive that the remote was buried under a couch cushion right beneath him.

On the other hand, he could watch Clark Griswold again. Steve wasn’t about to wake you up now. Not when you were sleeping so deeply.

No.

He’d let you sleep.

Besides, Steve had found something to do.

That piece of paper you’d been hugging to yourself and your purple pen that had been wedged in your Cosmo. Said Cosmo had been shoved behind the couch, where he was safe from that stupid quizzes results.

He’d looked at the quiz.

Asinine. Completely asinine. 

If Steve’d been able to get up, he would have buried it in the trash.

Steve wasn’t about to wake you up though. No. Not for at least an hour or so. When he finished the sketch he was fooling around with, or when he was ready for some more food. 

It’d been years since he drew anything. Years. A decade maybe. Not since he woke up from the ice, before Hydra was something more than a part of his complicated past.

Sloping curves began to form. Long flowing lines in purple ink on the back of that stiff paper, dried with his sweat, folded in half. A rough outline of your body on top of his, blanket down around the small of your back with your face pressed up against him, hidden from view. A soft shading hid your resting face. More soft shading hinted at dips in the blanket where it covered you and a smear of release on his thigh, that had rubbed off you onto him. Now cool and sticky.

Making his random sketch both incredibly intimate with a lack of details that kept it from being explicit. The purple ink added an element that made it less revealing in an odd sort of way.

A need to capture that exact moment he was in. The night that you told him you loved him. Said those exact words. 

Steve hadn’t been sure if you’d ever distinctly say those particular words to him.

You did though. You’d said you loved him. You’d been open and vulnerable with him. More than that even. 

It was more then he could have ever allowed himself to hope for. He needed a way to get out what he was feeling, express that heaviness that sat on his chest. Leading to his sketching, as Clark slid off his icy house while stapling Christmas Lights to his roof on the TV.

Steve had however elected to leave Sparky out of his drawing. Rebecca’s wild stuffed animal remaining close enough for him to reach out and touch and that was more than enough. 

Even with that damn furry thing watching with its glass eyes, it was the best Christmas he’d had since marrying you.


End file.
